through unyielding oak doors set in solid stone walls. Tavia knew the thick silence that came afterwards was locked in the dungeon with her. She swallowed as she studied her surroundings. She struggled not to be afraid. And she doubted the sense of paying two gold pfennigs for this dubious and dangerous privilege.
Blazing torches hung from sconces on the walls. The flames splashed shadows and a glaring orange light onto the cobbled stones of the dungeon floor. Spirals of black smoke spewed upward toward the faraway roof. Sulphuric smells and unearthly stinks crept from the shadowy corners.
‘This is not a waste of time.’ Tavia muttered the words like a mystical chant, determined to invest them with truth. ‘It was not a waste of money. It is not a waste of time.’
She had entered the dungeons against the advice of her twin, Caitrin, and without the knowledge of her father, Duncan, castellan of Blackheath. It had cost her dearly to bribe guards and key-keepers to get this far. And she wouldn’t let herself believe that it could all be for nothing. She brushed a stray lock of blonde tresses from her brow and stepped nervously from one foot to the other.
She wore wooden pattens with leather straps. The heels tripped loudly against the stone floor. Drawing a deep breath she tried to decide which way she needed to walk to find the man she had come looking for. A stirring to her right made her hesitate. For an instant she feared she had woken some dangerous and malevolent creature from its slumber.
There was the growl of a man clearing his throat.
She glanced toward the sound. ‘Hello?’
‘Fuck off,’ a voice called. ‘I’ve got a hangover and I’m in no mood for damned visitors.’
Tavia stiffened.
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?’
