A Husband for Deva

Pretty Fireworks

"No! That's mine – my husband gave me that necklace as a wedding present! You have to give it back to me; you have to let me out of here!" Deva could hear the panic in her voice, could feel her hands shaking and her legs weak as jelly threatening collapse.

Only when Father Angad stepped backwards in horror did she realize that tendrils of angry violet-orange light were beginning to swirl around her like a building storm – hazy and dim without the strength of the torcha around her neck, but enough to put a touch of fear into the old man's eyes.

Calm down. Breathe. Deny, pretend. Say Jenia was making up stories. Be sweet, passive, biddable... be what they've always expected of me. But the stormy light flickering around her said it was too late for that.

Just how much power did the bandhi  in her hair give, alone? Deva pushed with her mind against the iron grille covering the doorway, imagined it twisting, breaking, melting. Nothing. Nothing but pretty fireworks without some training and my torcha. She choked back a howl of rage and frustration.

Still clutching the torcha's case in one hand, Father Angad crossed his wrists and intoned, "Lord of Light, let this your humble daughter be purged of the malicious darkness–"

"Malicious darkness?" Absolute rage flowed through Deva, and the light around her intensified. Yes. Let it come. Scare him with my fireworks. "I'm not the malicious one in all this. I haven't stolen anyone's jewelry, or gossiped and tattled, or pretended kindness to entrap those who trust me in a secret prison."

Father Angad coughed, a strangled sound of protest. "But..."

"Don't bother. I know those arguments. It's for my protection, I must be kept on the Path, a helpless cursed flower who can't think for myself." Deva found herself laughing, almost snarling, on the edge of hysteria. "I'm not a flower!"

The magic fire began to arc toward Father Angad – was it attracted to the necklace he held, the torcha that had been forged to amplify it? He shuffled away toward the stairs, the fear on him more pronounced now. "Contemplate your footsteps, Princess Deva," he muttered. "Return to the Path of Light."

"You can't keep me here! Open this door." Her voice came low and furious now, demanding, powerful. There was a hint of an echo in it, an unexpected trace of compelling fitánga, and Father Angad wavered. Took one step back toward her. Stopped, and blinked in puzzled resentment.

"No. Your filthy spells will not affect me."

"I'm not trying to do magic, I'm telling you that you have to let me go." Deva took a deep breath, working to keep the pleading desperation out of her voice. Trying for a reasonable tone. "I'm carrying the heir to Ilujavik. For once in my life, I'm important. They'll notice if I'm not there for the evening meal." A cramp stabbed across her belly and she hunched over, gasping.

"On the Path of Light, there are no heirs or thrones," said Father Angad, his tone sour. "And no one knows you're here. Even Their Majesties don't know of this place."

"Brialach will find me. He'll come for me." Please.

"I don't see how." The elderly cleric offered a hard, pursed-lipped smile. "Sleep well, wayward one." And his soft footsteps faded up the stairs.

He didn't leave even a candle, but a trace of moonlight crept in from the arrow-slit windows across the hall.

No more need for a brave face. There was nothing left but silence, the iron grille over the doorway, and the plain bare room in the darkness. With a chamber pot. An urgent need for it came over her as her limbs wobbled and her self-control shredded, and even bending down to feel for it under the cot seemed an impossible challenge; she fumbled to lift her skirts, and barely made it in time.

          ♥          ♥          ♥

The hard, narrow cot was not made for a pregnant woman's back. Dark hours ticked by. Deva twisted and shifted, sat up, lay down, curled up, stretched out. Longed for her comfortable bed and Brialach's warm body at her back.

At some point, she drifted into a doze, and dreamed of him – the shadowy proháinte-man she'd first met, floating over her like a wisp of smoke, brushing her cheek with insubstantial fingers. And in her dream, she thought she heard his voice, inside her head or far away, calling, "Where are you, Ilujavit girl?"

___________

♥ I was going to get Deva out of the cell in this chapter, but... no. I realized that something else has to happen first. So she'll have to stay in there a little longer. At least she has a chamber pot, though – what's one thing you couldn't bear to be locked up without?

♥ Don't forget to click the vote star! Vote stars spread happiness and encourage authors.