Chapter Ten
“W ell?”
Leaning over the nest in the faint light of the fire’s embers, Jem jerked up.
He hadn’t realized Cador was awake, and he braced to find him unashamedly naked again.
Fortunately—or not, depending on one’s perspective—Cador was still nestled under the furs on the bed.
He blinked sleepily at Jem, just visible in the shadows.
“Three have died. I put them in the fire. But one lives. I’ll feed her again soon.”
“Her? How can you be sure?”
“I can’t, but it feels right. I’ll know for certain when she’s ready to leave the nest and her mature feathers grow in.
That’s assuming askells are like dillywigs.
Time will tell. I shall call her Derwa in the meantime.
” In the books, Derwa was Morvoren’s closest friend, a sturdy and dependable girl.
“If you insist.”
“When is the sun up?” Without windows, he had no idea of the time. It felt quite early in the dawn, still hushed, the forest birds beyond the cottage’s walls silent. Or perhaps the stone was so thick their song was muffled.
“Not for a couple of hours, but the hunt begins early. Our days are shorter here.” Cador threw back his furs, and there he was in all his considerable glory, inked tusks on his broad chest, his half-hard prick jutting out proudly.
Who needed birdsong or a rooster’s crow to signal morning when you had that ?
Jem resolutely kept his gaze on the nest. Soon Derwa would be squawking for breakfast, he hoped.
He winced as he stretched the crick in his neck.
He should be used to sleeping on the floor after the voyage, but he had to admit he missed his bed.
Thoughts of his chamber and books and soft sheets threatened an eruption of the unwanted longing he’d forced deep inside, so he busied himself with chewing worms.
The morning passed by quickly enough, watery dawn light not getting all that brighter.
Thick clouds obscured the sky beyond the tall trees, where Cador had disappeared to hunt, grinning to have his spear in his grasp once more.
Jem explored the clearing, petting the friendly goats and not daring to venture any farther than the outhouse.
Cador returned empty-handed, yet it didn’t seem to dampen his spirits.
Jem’s trunk was delivered, and after feeding his hatchling midday, he poked through his meager belongings.
When he pulled out the candle he used to pleasure himself, he threw it back inside as though it was lit and dripping burning wax onto his fingers. He closed the lid with a thunk.
The journey to Rusk to acquire warmer clothing didn’t take long.
It was less painful to ride, so that was something.
Sitting between Cador’s powerful thighs, keeping his spine rigid, Jem tried to ignore the open stares and suspicious murmurs as they entered the village.
His red cloak was now a makeshift nest, and he wrapped a rough wool blanket he’d borrowed more tightly around his shoulders.
The air smelled of smoked meat and horse dung. Then, as the wind changed, fresh bread. Jem was no expert, but the villages he’d visited on Onan’s mainland had seemed…
He struggled to marshal his thoughts. It wasn’t that they were prettier—although they were, with bright flowers in ceramic pots lining the cobbled streets. In Rusk, the streets were dirt, and Jem couldn’t imagine flowers. Perhaps in summer, the place would come to life.
He realized the other fundamental difference was that the people—when they weren’t glaring up at him or staring and whispering about him—kept their heads down, going about their business without cheery greetings to each other.
Where were the gossiping old men that would gather to sip tea at the temple that was a tribute to the gods?
Ah! Jem gazed around at the huddle of huts and mishmash of streets. That was the biggest difference—Rusk had not been built to fan out from the central temple.
In the village near the castle where Jem lived, the temple was similar to most on the mainland—a large, open, four-sided stone square.
A statue of Dor, Tan, Glaw, and Hwytha in the center was carved on a mighty pedestal, as though the gods surveyed the villagers from the heavens.
The local clerics preached from the base of the statue.
Steps surrounded the raised temple on all sides, as well as a village square that was the heart of the community.
Children played there on the grass, old men made themselves comfortable on the steps with their tea and shared rumors, and villagers passed through as they went about their days, chatting and laughing.
There seemed to be no such tribute and village heart in Rusk.
The squat stone house where they stopped bore no sign. The seamstress was an older woman who poked and prodded him, tsking under her breath while Cador leaned against the door frame, watching impassively.
“Are they all this small?” she asked Cador, as if Jem wasn’t there even though she was measuring the length of his arm, her bushy gray hair tickling his cheek as she bent near.
“No,” Cador answered.
She grunted. “Maybe he didn’t grow right.”
“I certainly did!” Jem cringed at his outburst. He should have learned to ignore it from years of Pasco’s and Locryn’s teasing. If Santo was there, they’d sling an arm around Jem’s shoulders and tell him a silly joke to make him smile.
He pressed his lips together, the pang of longing fierce, escaping its box despite his best efforts. Was his family back home in Neuvella now? He supposed they must be, likely ages ago while he was still on the ship to Ergh.
Do they miss me?
At least he hadn’t voiced the plaintive words aloud.
The seamstress was measuring his legs now, and Cador announced he was leaving, adding something else Jem didn’t hear.
Jem said, “Pardon?” but Cador was gone. The seamstress stripped him down to his small clothes. At least Cador wasn’t watching anymore.
No sooner had the thought flickered through his mind than Jem was imagining stripping down while Cador watched.
Safely alone in his chamber back home, he’d indulged certain fantasies, such as a burly woodsman having his wicked way with him.
Sometimes, Jem imagined the intruder would bind him, making him helpless and unable to do anything but surrender…
Or the man would watch while he brought himself release. What would it be like to have Cador’s icy blue gaze on his bare skin while he—
This isn’t the place!
Fortunately, the seamstress had her head in a trunk of fabrics. Jem quickly filled his mind with worries of the hatchling and how she fared in the cottage. If Cador had still been watching the fitting, Jem would probably be sporting a humiliating erection.
Soon, the seamstress beckoned a team of workers from another room and they all went to work. Her helpers stole glances at Jem that varied from suspicious to wary to curious. The seamstress’s gnarled fingers flew as she worked with a wicked-looking needle.
“You’re lucky I have a pair of boots that will fit you,” she muttered. “They were made for a child. Should do you fine since you’re so puny.”
The workers tittered at this, silenced immediately by her glare.
Jem forced back a retort, instead smiling. “Thank you. But won’t the child need them?”
Needles froze in mid-stich, and the air grew instantly heavy. Jem had clearly offended them or raised a delicate question. Gods, had something happened to the poor child? He was about to stammer an apology when the seamstress spoke, going back to her work.
She simply said, “No.”
Jem waited in silence as they made remarkably quick work of the new garments.
Before too long, he was clad in dark shades of leather and spun wool, a fur-lined cloak over his shoulders and the thick-soled boots that came to mid-shin heavy on his feet.
The seamstress promised him a delivery of tunics, trousers, hat, gloves, and scarves of differing weights.
“Er, thank you. But it’s spring, isn’t it? Surely it will soon be too warm for all that?”
Her teeth flashed wide in a wrinkled face, the ensuing laughter sending dread sinking through him as she just laughed and laughed, sharing smiles with her staff. Jem tried to smile too, likely failing miserably. She shooed him out as more customers squeezed into the small house.
Clutching his bundle of old clothes, the blanket, and his thin boots on top, Jem shrank back against the seamstress’s cottage, trying to ignore the stares of passersby.
Where had Cador said he was going? Couldn’t he have simply waited?
Now Jem was meant to stand there and be gawked at until he returned?
Irritation simmered to a low boil. He thought not. Head high, Jem strode down the dirt lane, his heart thumping. It wasn’t as if Rusk was large enough to lose himself in.
Yet he soon realized the town was deceptive in size. Although the buildings weren’t tall or grand, they stretched into the distance in a mess of directions.
He pulled up the hood of his new cloak, trying to blend in. At home, villagers would greet him by his title, the old women at the bakery grinning at the flowers he brought them, gifting him with delicate cakes that left sugary syrup on his fingers to lick clean on his stroll back to the castle.
Jem’s new boots sank into a fresh pile of dung, and he cursed Cador anew, hurrying through the maze of Rusk. He jolted in surprise when he turned a corner to find that there was a tribute to the gods after all.
This statue clearly depicted the four gods and their elements, although it wasn’t nearly as high as those on the mainland, and it wasn’t in a temple surrounded by steps and a village center.
This tribute stood at a seemingly random spot where a house would have been. In fact, the charred remnants of floorboards poked up from the dirt. Likely one of the timber huts, since there was no stone in evidence.