The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 4: The Princess's Suitor, Part 3

 In the end, the temptation to escape the Chalcedony Palace, to meet with a handsome stranger who had dared to flirt with her even upon learning she was a daughter of Somilius Deyn, was too much for Carala to resist. If she hadn't been promised to Denisius, she later reflected, she might never have gone. But since that meeting with her father and her mother and the Lord Marhollow (Denisius himself was not present, and she would later learn he had no idea what his father had negotiated until the matter was already finalized), she had come to feel a certain amount of dread regarding her impending wedding. Not because of her intended, but simply of the wedding itself and all it represented; of being shipped from the Chalcedony Palace to yet another beautiful gaol, even if it was a townhouse in the Palace District where she was free to come and go as she pleased, even if Denisius never forbade her any study or hobby she fancied at all. The princess thought she'd have felt the same dread no matter to whom her father promised her, whether it was the lowliest squire who could barely be considered noble or the Eternal Sultan of Q'Sivaris himself. So under cover of night, her telltale shock of midnight hair concealed beneath a heavy hood, she and Ralessa departed the Palace through a forgotten servant's entry beneath the Gloaming Wing, descending into the streets of Talinara, and slipping unnoticed into the Three Harts. Carala had never been so excited in her life.

The tavern -- or music hall -- or impromptu theatre -- for it was any or all of these things depending on the vigor of the evening's crowd -- was everything Ralessa had described and more. A troupe of musicians from Summervale occupied the little stage built into the corner furthest from the bar, filling the main hall to its timbers with a raucous, infectious music the likes of which Carala had never heard before. They had brought a pair of dancers with them, possibly husband and wife, the tavern's lamplight coruscating off their sleek dark skin, the chimes and jingling tokens on their garb adding a music all their own. Soldiers on leave from Fort Shale were hunkered down at one round table, playing a complex version of Whistling Jack that required three different decks of cards and a pair of dice to boot. The barman's harried daughters hustled to and fro, taking orders and serving tankards of drink and platters of food. Rich smells of pasties and puddings and stews and roasts filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of kossun smoke drifting from a semi-private room tucked through a door beside the great hearth, under the shadow of the triple set of hart horns. And on the other side of the hearth, Carala saw a group of workmen dressed as the ones at Madame Greythorne's estate had been clad, one of them quite familiar. Tacen looked up, surprised but obviously delighted when his eyes met hers under the shadow of her hood, and hailed both of them over to the table.

That night wasn't the first time in her life Carala had felt the effects of a little too much alcohol, but it was certainly the first time she went so far as to consider herself drunk. The Aznian spirits turned out to be fiery but compelling, and she had drunk far too much of them too quickly, leaning heavily against Tacen as the night wore on, rather liking the familiarity of his rough hand first on her shoulder, then grazing down her spine to circle his arm about her waist. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, a shivery pleasure blossoming in her as the strong scent of him filled her nostrils, reminding her a bit of how it smelled in the stables but somehow cleaner, indeed, more like the smell of the Imperial forest preserves her father seldom visited anymore. At some point -- it was hard to know when, because the tavern only seemed to grow more rambunctious as the night wore on, and Ralessa was no help since she had found herself the focus of the attention of no fewer than three of Tacen's coworkers -- Tacen murmured in her ear that he had a private room upstairs, and they might be able to chat a little more easily if they went there together.

She was tempted. Gods, she was tempted. Ralessa's brash advice concerning a woman's experience before marriage seemed to echo in her head, and Tacen was so strong and handsome, and would it be so wrong to experience something like that before she resigned herself to Denisius's soft and harmless body for the rest of her life? There was also the fact her nerves were stoked into a delicious heat by the effects of the Aznian spirits, and she could scarcely imagine what it would feel like for Tacen -- a commoner -- to touch her in this state.