A sharp splinter of sunlight stabbed through his closed eyelids.
Squinting against the brilliant glare off the leaded glass window, Varkas slowly pushed himself upright.
For a brief, disoriented moment, he could not place the room. It took several seconds for memory to take hold: he had returned to Raedgo Castle.
Letting out a slow breath, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Perhaps because he had slept straight through until the sun hung high, the leaden weight in his limbs had lifted. His mind, however, remained sluggish, submerged beneath a dense fog.
He rose, dragging a rough hand through his disheveled hair.
He must have thrashed through his sleep; the formal tunic he had worn yesterday was a ruin of creases. Unbuttoning the crushed collar with one hand, Varkas rang the bell by the headboard.
“Bring water to wash, and fresh clothes.”
A young valet hurried in, promptly drawing a bath and laying out an Eastern cut of formal dress tailored to Imperial court standards.
Stripping off the rumpled garments, Varkas lowered himself into water steeped with mint leaves.
Half the morning was already gone, and he needed to make haste, yet he found himself strangely loath to rise from the tub.
Even after scrubbing his skin nearly raw from neck to heel, he lingered in the cooling water, stepping out only when he caught the restless rustle of pacing footsteps outside the chamber door.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
When Varkas stepped into the corridor in his freshly pressed attire, Daren’s nephew, Baredon, lowered his head, his face rigid with nervous tension.
“I trust you rested well through the night. I know how exhausted you must be after plunging straight into official duties upon your return, and I am loath to burden you, but…”
“Get to the point.”
Varkas cut him short and started down the stone gallery. The young man scrambled to keep pace, words tumbling out in an awkward rush.
“M-my apologies. A sacrament is scheduled at the Great Cathedral at the sixth hour. In deference to the Grand Priest’s standing, it was deemed fitting that this service be observed at the cathedral rather than the domestic chapel…”
Varkas glanced out the tall archway toward the spire rising beyond the ramparts of Raedgo Castle, then gave a brief nod.
“Very well. Have the carriage brought around. We leave at once.”
“And your meal—”
“There is no time. If we are to arrive before the bells, we must move.”
“Understood. I will summon the driver immediately.”
The lad darted past him and bounded down the stairwell.
It would take at least ten minutes to hitch the horses. Intending to clear a few matters in the interim, Varkas turned into his study, handed the missive he had drafted the previous evening to an attendant runner, and glanced through the urgent dispatches awaiting his seal.
By the time he set down his quill after scrawling his name across the final parchment, a servant sent by Baredon was bowing at the threshold to report the carriage ready.
Passing the signed council ledgers to his secretary, he strode from the room.
Descending the grand staircase and stepping out through the portico, he was met by the blinding glare of the courtyard garden. They were already cutting it far too fine.
He squinted up at the midday sun burning directly overhead, only for an unexpected voice to drift from behind him.
“How rare. You, sleeping past daybreak.”
Varkas turned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the figure seated near the edge of the stone pavilion.
Talia rose slowly to her feet and walked toward him, the massive dire wolf padding at her hip.
“My neck was beginning to ache from craning toward that door.”
Varkas watched the movement of her carmine lips as she muttered the complaint, his gaze drifting over her gown.
She wore an Eastern silk robe of heavy drape, cinched at the waist with a girdle of etched gold plaques, looking every bit like an ancient, foreign deity.
In that quiet breath, Varkas understood precisely why the folk of the East spoke of earth spirits whenever they laid eyes upon her.
A strange heat pricked beneath his temples. His tone came out flat, guarded. “…You were waiting for me?”
She inclined her chin with indifferent ease.
“You are departing for the Great Cathedral, are you not? I am coming with you.”
Varkas looked at her, his brow furrowing as though she had spoken in a tongue he could not parse.
When he offered no reply, her gaze sharpened.
“What? Am I forbidden from the rites? Protocol dictates the Grand Duchess accompany you.”
Since when did protocol concern you?
Studying her with faint disbelief, Varkas exhaled through his nose.
“There is no reason to force yourself into an ordeal out of mere propriety. Did you not say you were met with hostility at the cathedral?”
“Which is precisely why I am attending.”
Her lips curved in a dry, sharp little smile.
“I should like to see whether that withered old priest dares preach his barbed sermons when you are standing beside me.”
Varkas let out a breath that was nearly a quiet laugh as he looked down into her face.
She fully intended to brandish him as a shield to pick a fight with the Grand Priest. Her presence would unravel any delicate conciliation he hoped to strike with the Church, yet Varkas relented anyway.
“As you wish.”
A brief ripple of relief flickered across her features, and only then did he realize she had genuinely braced herself for a refusal.
“Well, come along, then.”
Talia extended a slender hand toward him. When he merely stood staring down at her sleeve, her voice took on a sharper edge.
“What are you waiting for? Your arm.”
Catching her meaning, he stepped forward and let his fingers close around the crook of her forearm. Talia leaned her weight into him without hesitation. The sweet, faint scent drifting from her skin settled in his throat, clouding an already muddled head.
What had brought this on?
Unable to master the confusion in his gaze, he stared down at her, only for her to urge him along with mounting impatience.
“Why are we standing here? Move.”
Varkas searched her face for some tell of her true purpose, then finally set his boots in motion. The dire wolf, which had been resting upon its haunches, rose and fell into step behind them as if by right.
Varkas shifted his frame, neatly interposing his shoulder between the beast and the woman.
“That beast… Khan cannot come with us.”
“I am not a fool.”
She snapped the retort, then turned and lowered her voice to a tender murmur for the wolf whose tail had begun to sweep the flagstones.
“Stay here a little while. I will return shortly.”
She gestured toward the maids waiting by the arcade.
“Do not just stand there. Mind Khan.”
At her word, the handmaidens nervously gathered around the massive animal.
Varkas kept a close watch on the dire wolf. Its amber eyes narrowed with clear displeasure at being separated from its mistress, but it neither bared a fang nor loosed a growl.
Still, for the women’s sake, he quietly signaled the perimeter guards to keep their pikes ready before escorting Talia to the carriage.
“Take my shoulder.”
Talia placed her fingers on his shoulder without complaint and stepped up into the carriage. Varkas climbed in after her, sat across from her on the bench, and tapped the wall to signal the coachman.
The iron-rimmed wheels groaned against the gravel as the carriage rolled across the outer bailey.
Leaning back against the cushioned seat that vibrated with the motion, he watched his wife. She was pressed close against the glass, her gaze fixed outside as though fascinated by the scenery.
Though she took pains not to betray it, her rigid posture made it obvious how strained and unnatural she found sharing such a confined space with him. He still could not fathom her intent—why she had insisted on coming at all.
Had she realized how precarious her position as Grand Duchess truly was, and decided to alter her stance?
Yet until last year, she had treated the title with utter contempt.
Two years ago, had she not even attempted to flee the castle under the cover of night?
END