Lark stared out the window. The lateness of night was passing into the cold early of the morning. She hadn't been able to sleep, pacing her quarters until the guard she'd ordered to her antechamber had come in to see if she was alright. The image of Rory, bare, beaten, and shivering kept coming to her in the dark. Her heart would break, tears would bite her eyes, and then she would see the tattoo on his shoulder and the tears would turn to anger.
She knew the pain of being marked – it was a Hidelen custom to receive a tattoo when coming of age, and hers was in the small of her back – and the idea that he could be decorated with the ensign without his knowledge was laughable, unbelievable, a ridiculous lie.
But his face, how he had begged her to believe him, his kindness, his desperate plea not to be left to die made her chest ache. She wanted him to be telling her the truth, wanted more than anything in the world for him to be innocent.
But he'd known what had been used to poison her, hadn't been there when she'd been attacked in the streets of Caershire.
Crying out in frustration, Lark rose from the window seat, pulling on silk robe overtop her nightgown. Padding across the floor, she passed into her antechamber. The guard there looked up, bowing slightly.
"My lady," he said. "It's very late."
"I can't sleep," she replied, chaffing warmth into her arms – her chambers were cold. "I want to walk alone."
The man shook his head apologetically. "I can't let you leave alone. Even being out here is violating my orders."
"I order you to stay."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but my orders come from Duke Silas."
Lark sighed. "Then come walking with me."
He bowed, and fell into step beside her.
"What's your name?" Lark asked. His boots were loud compared to her bare feet on the floor.
"Khenji, my lady," he replied. She looked up at him.
"You're Hidelen," she said. He nodded.
"I served your father while he was in the Maharani's court," Khenji said. "He's a good man."
"I miss it. I miss the heat and the sand."
"As do I. Although I don't long to return to the snakes."
Lark laughed. "That's true."
They paced for a time, moving through the dim hallways of the sleeping castle.
"Princess," Khenji asked. "Where are we going?"
Lark slowed, sighing. The windows of the corridor were casting evenly spaced, watery pools of moonlight on the floor, and she paused in one.
"I need to see my husband," she murmured. "I need... Aspen. We're going to his quarters."
Khenji shook his head. "He won't be there. He spends most nights with his brother. I used to be posted outside of his rooms."
Chewing her bottom lip, she thought of Silas, of the last time she'd been to his chambers. He'd told her of feelings he had that she hadn't ever wanted to know. The thought of going to him now, with Aspen there, made her very uncomfortable, especially in the light of the emotions she had towards Rory.
Kenji walked beside her, curbing his pace so as match her.
"Are you happy here, my lady?" His gentle question caught her off guard.
"I spent much of my time here as a child."
"Yes, but are you happy here?"
Lark paused. They were outside of Silas's rooms.
"I don't know," she said. It had been a simple question, a simple answer and thought, but the words were heavy on her tongue.
"Stay out here," she told him. "I want you guarding the door. I'll be safe with the Duke."
Khenji nodded, standing beside the threshold. Lark knocked softly on the door, nervous. There were footsteps, and then she was met with Silas, dark hair tousled, clad in rumpled breeches and a white shirt. He blearily blinked down at her, rubbing his face.
"It's late, Lark," he muttered. "What's this about?"
She stared at him, wondering how he so easily could have forgotten. There were more footsteps, and Aspen appeared in the door in much the same state as Silas. He didn't bother to mask his astonishment at seeing her there.
"Lark," he breathed, but didn't say more. She pushed between them, moving into the room. Silas closed the door, putting his back to the wood and leaning against it, watching her. She walked farther into his chambers. Silas's bed was a mess, and Aspen retreated to a chair by the hearth that was piled with blankets. Several bottles were strewn across tables and the floor. They had been drinking. Heavily.
Lark picked up a glass that wasn't quite empty, swirling it and raising a brow towards Aspen.
"Is this why you haven't been sleeping well?" she asked gently. He wouldn't meet her gaze.
"Can I get you a drink?" Silas asked, moving to the fireplace.
"Nothing strong."
Nodding, Silas crouched by the flames, moving a pot filled with water into the coals.
"What's wrong?" he said, sitting back on his heels. "It's the dead of night."
"Have you so easily forgotten about another man's life?" she said, shaking her head. He exhaled, folding his legs as he said beside the fire.
"Rory," he sighed in answer. Aspen looked up, his brow furrowed.
"Rory?" he asked. "What about him?"
Lark shot a look towards Silas. "He doesn't know?"
"What don't I know?" demanded Aspen.
"You had enough to worry about," Silas muttered to his brother, taking a bottle from the floor and raising it to his lips, his voice echoing in the glass. "I didn't want you to get involved."
"He's going to be hanged tomorrow!" Lark growled. "You didn't think Aspen should be involved?"
Aspen rose to his feet, looking down at Silas.
"I've known Rory for half my life," he said. "We learned to fight together when we were children. I assigned him to Lark because there isn't a soldier I trust more, and you didn't want to tell me that he's going to be executed?"
Silas got to his feet. He was only slightly taller than Aspen, but it gave him an imposing air.
"He has the mark on his shoulder!" he snarled. "What would you have me do?"
Lark sank into chair, putting a hand to her head as she sobbed, horribly frustrated. Both Silas and Aspen turned to her, their argument dying.
"Lark..." they both spoke at the same time, then awkwardly looked to the floor, not seeming to know what to do or say. Pulling herself together, she wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand and stood.
"You can't let him hang," she said to Silas. "Rory's life is in your hands. His death will be on you."
"Are you saying he's innocent? That he didn't put your life in danger? I know about his fights, know that you were there."
She shifted, and Silas's big, dark eyes were on her, though she couldn't meet them.
"Then you know that I stayed that night to look after him," she murmured. He bowed his head.
"Yes."
"Lark?" It was Aspen, hurt on his face, pain in his green eyes. Emotions she didn't understand were choking her. She knew he was imagining the worst, that the night she had spent with Rory had been more than long hours of praying that he would be alright.
"Aspen," she said, insulted that he would think so low of her. "I didn't sleep with him. He'd been beaten within an inch of his life."
He shut his eyes for a moment.
"Of course," he murmured. "I'm sorry."
She stood, moving closer and wrapping her arms around him. There was something between them, nurtured by the horrible circumstances they were in. His body was warm, and he held her close.
"I wouldn't do that to you," she said, though he had done the very same to her. "You know that."
But her heart felt hollow, and the words tasted like a lie. Her mind was at war with itself. She wanted to love Aspen, wanted him to love her, but even when she was with him her mind was on Rory, on his strong presence that always seemed to be with her.
The image of the tattoo on his shoulder brought tears to her eyes once more. She held onto Aspen, physically and emotionally exhausted. She could feel the stiffness of his muscles, the slight awkwardness with which he held her – his crying wife of only a few days.
"Aspen," Silas said. "Go back to your rooms and get some rest. I'll deal with Rory."
She thought she felt Aspen's lips on her forehead as he moved away. He muttered a word to Silas, took a bottle from the table, and walked out the door.
"He's uncomfortable with me," Lark said.
"You're a crying female that he's falling in love with," Silas said. "Of course he is."
Silas reached for two cups on the table, dipping them into the pot. She stared into the flames while he crumbled tea leaves into the hot water. A few minutes passed, and he handed her the cup.
"You love him, don't you?" he said softly. His tone made it clear that it wasn't a question.
"He's my husband."
"Not Aspen."
The clay mug nearly fell from her fingers. Lark stared at him, her heart a drum in her chest.
"Why would you say such a thing?" she breathed. It took every bit of her will and training to keep her suddenly weak knees from buckling. Silas drank long and deep from his cup, and she briefly wondered if his was more than just tea.
"You change," he said finally, "when his name is spoken. I can see it in your eyes, your body. You love him. I knew, when you came here to save him."
Panic and anger crashed though her.
"Because I don't want a man to die, it means that I that love him?" she exclaimed. He shook his head.
"No. It's because you don't know if he's innocent, yet you refuse to think anything different."
"That's not true," she protested.
"Lark, sit down," he told her firmly, a dangerously still note in his voice. She did as he said. He settled into his chair, nursing his drink and gazing into the fire. No words filled the painful silence, leaving Lark to stare into her cup, mortified, longing for him say something, anything. But he didn't. He didn't look at her, only moved to lean back in his seat.
He closed his eyes.
The duke before her knew her better than she did. Somehow he'd seen the longing in her mind, though she herself didn't know what she longed for. Lark felt as if her heart was being pulled apart by four horses, drawn and quarter by Aspen, Rory, Silas, and reason.
She loved Rory, and Silas had betrayed that to her, to the world, made it truth instead of a deep, forbidden thought.
Then he'd left her in the torturous silence.
"Yes," she said finally, swallowing back her tears, breaking to him as he'd known she would in the quiet, unable to keep her own mind from abusing her.
Silas looked up, his dark eyes watching her carefully, his face impassive.
"Yes," she repeated. "I love him. He's the only person in the kingdom who hasn't pitied me or treated me like a child."
Lark wavered on the edge of her chair, torn between staying seated and fleeing the very kingdom she was in.
"Please, Silas," she whispered. "Don't tell Aspen, it would kill him if he knew. And don't let Rory die. Whatever you think he'd done, he hasn't."
"Even if he didn't have the tattoo, he put your life in danger by going to that fight."
"I went after him of my own volition," she said. "He never meant for me to follow."
"It's still illegal. He's still a member of the royal guard who has broken a law he is paid to uphold. He took and oath, and he knew the consequences."
"So you're going to have him killed?" Lark cried. He winced at her words, thought he quickly covered it with anger.
"Drink your tea, Lark," he told her. "You have no voice in this decision."
She obeyed. The liquid was earthy, with a sharp, sour tang, like licorice. A pleasant warmth went through her, and she drank gratefully – the day, the dungeons, Rory had left her cold inside.
"You have a guard outside, yes?" Silas asked, continuing when she nodded. "I'll call him to come for you. You won't make it back to your rooms."
She looked up at him in mild surprise, not fully understand his words. "What?"
"The tea," he said. "It's a sedative. A sleeping drug. We both need rest and I know you won't sleep any other way."
Setting the cup down onto the table beside her, she looked up at him.
"You drugged me?" she choked. "Why do you have this?"
"Because I rarely sleep myself," Silas answered. "This will help us both. You'll feel better when you wake, be more rational about this whole ordeal."
Hints of slurring smudged his words now. Lark tried to rise but found that her body was too heavy to move. The feat of keeping her eyes open seemed to be an impossible one.
The last thing she heard was Silas rising to his feet.