Bree: Betusha: The Anata Border
Upstairs, in the room Darron had rented for them, Bree lit a small candle from a brazier and set about undressing. She began by emptying her hidden pockets of their treasures—coins and gold jewellry, a fine ivory comb and a collection of small votives from Massenqa temples. She'd made a habit of counting her wealth every time she was sure of some privacy, unwilling to trust that her companions' fingers were any less sticky than her own.
A few more months and she would be rid of this lot, then she could take what remained of the funds Hima had given her and pay for passage south. There would be more men like Darron, of course, and maybe she was foolish to abandon him, but in Bree's experience the longer you kept a man around, the more likely he was to get attached. Bree might not hate Darron, but like was a strong word, and she had no desire to become his property. No, someone new would be better, even if he were worse.
She'd never meet a worse type than Aurelius eq-Eshmunen.
Bree's throat grew tight. She slid her hand into a pocket sewn at her breast, a seductive calm rushing through her as her fingers found Aurelius's wooden carving. She traced the fracture where a crude mending job had reattached a cracked leg. It was a shattered thing glued haphazardly into something functional.
Just like Bree.
Rumour had reached the caravan that King Aurelius was married now to a true princess—a Semassenqat blessed not only with grace but with wisdom too.
Graceful. Polite. Wise.
Bree was none of those things, but at least she and Titrit shared madness in common, along with their crippling affections for Qemassen's king. Let Aurelius have Titrit's madness if it was the Massenqat he so desired.
Jealousy stewed in her at the thought of her lover's irritatingly handsome face, his lips touching Titrit's, his hands holding her, his tongue making her squeal. In their rooms at the palace, Aurelius had promised he would always hold her, no matter what happened, no matter how old they grew, no matter if they fought and bickered. What lies men told, to make you feel safe, to gain entry.
The jug of wine Darron had ordered called to her from a small table. Bree grabbed a cup, poured it to the brim, and downed it in two gulps.
Now such things were Titrit's to worry on, along with a son Bree could only hope Hima had been honest about protecting. If only there was a way to know, for certain, that he was safe.
"I thought it was you."
Bree jumped at the man's voice. She leapt onto the bed, kicking the covers from it, ready to scream. She pulled a small dagger from her belt and held it out in front of her.
Bree bared her teeth. "I've a man downstairs. His fists are as big around as your head."
The old man in the hood snorted darkly, and Bree squinted. She should have lit the larger torch on the wall.
She recognized him, she was sure of that now. There was such venom in his voice, such loathing.
"I'm not afraid of your merchant or his friends. My darkest fears have been made real already. I've seen my king murdered and usurped, my faithless wife betray me and sell me to thieves. I've been set adrift from the only place I've ever called home or cared for—an exile unworthy of its broken walls. My prince is lost, my portents dust, my sacrifices rendered pointless. I gave my life for my city, every heqet of myself since I was a child, and because of you, a princess very far from home, I find myself ensnared, a slave to thugs and cheats, dishonoured and discarded."
