In the end,
it all proved absurdly simple. She asked him for advice, on what she
could not even remember, hunting perhaps, and, as he was engrossed in
his own response, she allowed them to wander further and further
from Karak's other companions. When, at last, she was certain they
were quite alone, sequestered in an alcove at the end of a long hall,
she reached out and touched his lips. It was a trick she had once
heard Shalana discussing with other, more “normal” girls at the
sanctum: “If you want a kiss, you must draw attention to the
mouth, his or yours.” At the time, she had thought the trick
sounded weak, not to mention cowardly and, had she not been desperate
and half sick with fear, she would never have allowed so much to hang
upon it.
But, whether Shalana had found real
wisdom or simply made a lucky guess, it served well now. Heinrich
started at first as KazaKu's fingers brushed him and she almost
pulled away but, with the same strength of will that would allow her
to fight on through the pain of a mortal wound, she forced her
fingers to linger one split second longer before breaking the
contact. The ploy worked like magic. Almost before she could fully
comprehend the audacity of what she had done, Heinrich was leaning
forward to place his mouth on hers. She felt the pressure of his
lips, the shared breath pass from one body to the other, and it took
everything she had to hold back the tears. Even though her mind knew
the person before her was nothing more than a tool she was making use
of for other ends, still, her body responded, and that tainted taste
give her a brief glimpse of how beautiful, how sacred, it could
have been, had fate dealt her a different hand.
At last, Heinrich took his mouth from
hers and held her by the shoulders, looking at her intently from his
dark hazel eyes. “I had given up all hope,” he said at least.
“It is hard, indeed, to abandon
hope,” she said dryly, thinking that, even though she had just
kissed another, she still could not drive the hope fully from her own
heart. “I'm sure you only managed to convince yourself you had
lost hope.”
He seemed rather taken aback by this
response. “Perhaps,” he said uncertainly.
“Why concern yourself with that?”
she replied, her voice, she knew, dangerously cold. “Not hope but
what actually comes to pass is what matters in the end.” But
Heinrich seemed not to hear the blade's edge in her tone. His face
brightened at her words and he clasped her to him. Her face was
against his hair and she could smell the difference from Karak's
hair. She felt sick but it did not matter. She had succeeded. She
didn't even need to arrange the tryst so important to her future.
Heinrich did all that without any prompting on her part whatsoever
for he had invited her to come to his lodgings the following night.
“We should go back,” he said
awkwardly, dropping her hand which he had held tightly up to that
point. “They'll notice we've gone at any moment.”
“Do you really think we can keep
this secret?” asked KazaKu. “And why would you want to?” she
wondered silently.
“No, I suppose not. But we should
try to be discreet, at least until we get back to the capitol. I
have the resources there to set you up in the style you deserve.”
KazaKu took a deep gasping breath. It would not be in vain then, her
sacrifice. He intended to take her with him. And there she would be
on hand to keep Karak's melancholy at bay, or serve him in any other
way she could. “Come,” he said gently, lifting his hand to guide
her without touching her and she followed docilely, at least on the
surface.
All through the rest of the day, while
she discussed court pastimes or played at dice with Felix and the
other young men, she tried to stop herself from hoping Karak would
arrive and declare his love for her, sparing her the frightening
ordeal the following night. But, to her disgust, she could not
banish this wild and useless dream. Every time she heard the doors
of the chamber open, she would glance up and feel her heart squeeze
as she waited for deliverance. Then the servant would come through
the doors and set down his tray of drinks or collect his master's hat
and cloak and she would look away, her cheeks flaming at her own
stupidity. And yet, it was better Karak did not come to the hall
that day. If he did come, she knew, it would not be to rescue her
and she did not know if her sanity could bear to look on him, knowing
she was soon to be false to him.
Heinrich seemed, fortunately, unaware
of this ordeal. All through the day, he hovered near but never
touched her, never spoke to her in any way different from how he
addressed the others. But, in his eyes, she could see the eager
dream he now dreamed. Whenever he felt unwatched, his glance would
stray to her and she felt his eyes pare away at her like a fruit
peeler, stripping off her protective clothing, then going deeper even
that her nakedness into the very fiber of her body. She drew tight
what inner veils she could to shield her soul which, if nothing else,
she would keep for Karak. Then, she willed her outer shell to relax
and open, to move with the suffering, not fight it, just as, years
before, she had learned to do if she were having an arrow extracted
or a wound stitched.
Before she set out on her final
journal as a virgin, KazaKu wrapped herself in a long, heavy cloak
that shrouded her from chin to sole and pulled the hood down over her
face, cramming her hair in behind her head as best she could. No one
from the town must recognize her. Truth be told, she stole the cape.
That large a circle of densely woven wool was a thing too fine for a
mere trainee. It belonged to one of the lady keepers and she had
taken it from the storage chest in the hall after the others had all
gone to dinner. It didn't matter. She would never return here
anyway. And it need not be a theft if she did not wish it. She
could have Heinrich return the cloak. Doubtless, he could provide
her with an even finer one if he wished.
In any case, the cloak served her well
for she was not recognized or accosted during her short walk to the
inn. Very short indeed, for she walked as quickly as she could
without fear of drawing attention to herself. And the soldiers
stationed at the inn, when asked to escort her to their master's
chamber, did not challenge her request as she had feared they might,
nor raise their eyebrows and make crude comments, which she had
feared even more. Perhaps Heinrich had told them to expect her. The
room they escorted her into was rich to her eyes, the walls of dark
wood, and the floor covered with fresh rushes. The fireplace had a
carved mantle and its screen and dogs were wrought into decorative
forms. There was a carpet on the floor where the rushes did not
cover, even if it were only a plain woven one, and the heavy bed
hangings were patterned. She was glad the curtains were closed so
she would not have to think about what lay beyond them just yet.
Heinrich stood in front of the
fireplace, staring into the flames with an almost blank, hypnotized
expression and, at the sound of her entrance, his head snapped around
as if the sound had startled him. He was wearing black velvet, stiff
with golden embroidery—the richest she had ever seen him
dressed—and, against it, his skin and hair looked even more pallid,
almost sickly. “You had no trouble then?” he asked her, his eyes
warming as she cast off her cloak.
“Absolutely none. Your guards
seemed to see nothing odd in escorting a woman to your room. You do
this often then?”
“No. No one but you.” He held
out his hands towards her, palms open. “I have never laid hands on
another woman, nor wanted to, at least in an individual sense.”
KazaKu felt her blood curdle. These
were words romantic girls like Shalana dreamed of, words KazaKu
herself longed for...from another, so now they must be wasted, thrown
away and squandered.
“I have never done this before either,”
she said as gently as her harsh voice would allow. “Neither of us
need feel awkward about what they do not know.” She stepped closer
and laid her hands in those of her tool, tilting her face for his
kiss. She would pay his price and he would perform his function,
never knowing she had used him...by letting him use her.
His hands tangled in her hair, pulling
her mouth tighter against him and the velvet brushed her throat like
the slither of a downy serpent. His hair hung against the side of
her face, so close were they, their foreheads almost touching, and
his breath stirred against her skin. As his kisses pressed her
cheek, her brow, her jaw, she saw the straight, almost white strands
draped across her and tried in vain to believe they were dark curls.
Pale fingers traced her throat, touched her collarbone, but drew back
from the neck of her bodice. Time and again, they made the assay and
stopped short. The other hand tightened around her waist and she
wondered if the coarseness of the cloth was strange and unpleasant to
his aristocratic hands.
Realizing that he would never go
farther on his own, she lifted her hands to the clasps that held her
dress closed. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she undid one after
another, baring herself for her sacrifice. She could not force
herself to uncover all, stopping well above the navel. But it was
all the encouragement he needed, at least for the moment. As he
fumbled his hands into the neck of her plain homespun, the fire
gradually died, leaving his pale skin crossed by deep lines of
shadow. Hesitantly, the soft palms trailed down her torso, cupping
her breasts, but not too firmly. She could feel a few faint
calluses, from reins, the sword hilt, perhaps a pen but, as his
fingers scrabbled against his ribs, she wondered how different would
be the strong, steady hands of an artist. Those hands would be
covered with rough callouses, worn small again by constant contact
with the tools of his calling, but their touch would be graceful and
flowing, as if they were creating a masterpiece on the surface of her
skin.
© Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
