In a corner of the gloomily lit dungeon she glimpsed a shadow. As her eyes became used to the contrast of fire-bright light and pitch-dark shadows she made out the shape of a figure slumped over an escritoire. He was round-shouldered, slovenly in silhouette and hunched like a predatory reptile.
‘Seer?’ she asked doubtfully.
He raised his head and fixed her with a sullen glower.
There was a dirty smear of beard stubbling his cheeks and jaw. Even in the black and orange of the dungeon’s illumination, Tavia could see that his eyes were red from the memories of too much ale. A mop of unkempt hair, dishevelled and as dark as winter nights, fell loosely over his brow.
He picked up a pewter tankard and sniffed the contents. A sneer of disgust wrinkled his lips. Reluctance shaped his features into a frown. And yet, he drank from the tankard anyway. As Tavia watched he drained the contents.
‘Seer?’ she repeated. ‘Is that you?’
‘No. I’m not a seer. I’m a prisoner. Now fuck off.’
She was annoyed to catch herself thinking of him as handsome. She supposed it must be a remnant of the dragon horn floating through her system. There had been times since taking the dragon horn when she found herself admiring men whom she normally wouldn’t have considered worthy as suitors or lovers. There had been times since taking the dragon horn when she had briefly lusted after farm hands, serfs and night soil workers. Her interest in this uncouth specimen seemed an obvious illustration of that condition. Unsettled by the moody glint in this man’s eye, and appalled by her own growing need for him, she willed herself to believe that his appeal was merely an after-effect of the dragon horn. She told herself that was the only reason why her loins were now warming.
‘You are Alvar, son of Erland.’ Tavia stepped closer as she spoke. Her heels clipped crisply against the cobbled floor. She wished she felt as confident as she sounded. ‘You were the famed seer from the Red River. You were respected counsel to Kendric of Cambrai Typus. You were –’
‘I’ve had a change of career,’ he broke in. ‘I’m now the prisoner of scītanhole dungeons. I no longer have the gift of second sight. I just have a tankard and a bucket. Now don’t let the dungeon door bang your arse on your way out of here.’
Tavia glared at him.
This was not going as she had hoped, but she knew, if skill at negotiations had been easy, her own well-honed abilities to influence and manipulate would have little worth. Quashing her exasperation, refusing to let the emotion show on her features, she fixed him with a politic smile.
‘What a shame,’ she muttered.
She had come to him dressed in formal military surcoat over her red and gold kirtles. The surcoat was emblazoned with the silver-on-black arms of the Order of Dark Knights. The Order of Dark Knights was an elite military unit headed by the castellan of Blackheath. Wearing the formal surcoat over her best kirtles, Tavia felt reassured by the protection that came from the symbol of silver swords crossed over a stone tower. It seemed a more imposing motif than her family heritage of three golden water-carrying maids on a crimson background.
She glimpsed the arms of the Order of Dark Knights as she reached into the folds of her skirts to remove a cloth purse. The sight gave her a surge of confidence.
‘I can do this,’ she whispered.
The cloth purse was heavy. The gold pieces it contained rattled together. Tavia shook the purse lightly, allowing the coins inside to chatter. There was a distinctive sound to gold on gold that she had never heard replicated by any other metals scratching together.
She saw the seer stiffen and tilt his head, as though listening.
He was clearly familiar with the sound of money.
‘I had wanted to do business with a seer.’
Tavia said the words as though she was speaking to herself. She shook the purse again. The musical chink of gold on gold rang from the dungeon walls.
‘But, if you no longer have the gift of second sight, Alvar, son of Erland, then I’ll leave you to your tankard and your bucket. I shall say prayers to the benevolent gods that you don’t confuse those two receptacles too often. And I’ll wish you a good morrow.’
Turning away from him, she started toward the dungeon doorway.
It was a calculated bluff. But she knew that all successful negotiations were nothing more than calculated bluffs. And Tavia prided herself on being a mistress of successful negotiations.
She didn’t hear him follow her.
He moved from his escritoire with a stealth that she would later consider chilling. She had taken three brisk steps toward the dungeon doorway when he placed his right hand on her right hip and clamped his left hand over her mouth.
Her gasp of surprise was muffled beneath his palm.
She was spun until she faced him.
The purse of coins fell heavily to the floor.
There was a clatter of gold rolling over cobbles.
Tavia’s stifled squeal of surprise was lost beneath the sound of money rolling away from her on the darkened floor. Her heartbeat raced as she realised she was in the arms of a strong and powerful man. He had a gaze that made her loins melt with sultry need. The musky scent of his nearness made her yearn for him.
‘Is this some sort of trick?’ he whispered.
She waited until he had removed his hand from her mouth. She liked that he was holding her tight. She could feel the thrust of his rigid manliness. It pressed from his loins, through his rich obsidian tunic, toward her stomach. It struck her that he wanted her as greedily as she wanted him. She stifled that thought, knowing that throwing herself at the seer at this stage would not help with the delicate negotiations she was trying to make.
‘Is this some sort of trick?’ he repeated.
‘You’re supposed to be the seer,’ she replied. ‘You tell me if this is a trick.’
In the light of the raw orange flames his eyes glittered with menace. He inhaled deeply and for an instant she saw something that resembled a smile crossing his lips.
And then the expression was gone.
With a grunt of frustration he pushed her from his embrace.
Tavia stumbled and almost fell to the floor.
‘Get down on your knees and pick up your gold,’ he snapped. His voice sounded hurt and angry. ‘Gold coins are of no use to me in this dungeon. Nothing is of any use to me in this damned dungeon; so you can take your gold coins and your nice-smelling hair and you can fuck off.’
She glared at him.
She was thankful for the poor light because it hid her blushes. He thought she had nice-smelling hair. The compliment struck her as being absurdly touching. She was grateful that someone had noticed she washed her blonde curls in a balsam of lemon and orange oils. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to be touched by the seer’s praise.
‘I knew you weren’t a real seer,’ she scoffed. ‘I knew you didn’t have the gift of sight.’
He reached into the pocket of his tunic. When he pulled his hand free she saw he was holding a well-thumbed deck of tarot. He rolled his shoulders and shuffled the cards with one hand. For a man who looked as though he had been dragged from the depths of a grog-induced slumber, his fingers worked on the deck with surprising agility.
She stared up at him as he stood with his back to one of the torches. He was nothing more than a silhouette but she thought his shape seemed to grow as he handled the cards.
She had seen expert swordsmen demonstrate skill in the mastery of their craft and believed it was always a pleasure to watch any competent artist excelling in their field. She had watched horsemen breaking wild stallions and she