Page 52 of The Traitor's Curse
“Lucian, get up here!” I pushed off the wall at Tavius’s peremptory command, starting up the stairs. “There you are. Bloody well move it. Lord Benedict doesn’t have a lot of time for you to fuck about.”
His sardonic, mocking tone set my teeth on edge, and my heart pounded with sick suspense.
I climbed the stairs and emerged into—I knew this place. Of course. An old gatehouse at the edge of the palace grounds, disused since I was a child. My father had thought this section of wall had too many entrances—or at least so he’d said, although now I wondered if he’d actually thought my dressing room had too many entrances—and he’d blocked off this gate and the small building attached to it. I’d explored it as a boy, and I recognized it now by its odd interior angles where it’d been builtto accommodate a turn in the wall.
The four men-at-arms standing in a semicircle in the middle of the rough plank floor were a new feature, though. They had their swords out, and their harsh faces wore nervous, wary expressions.
As I came out of the trap door and stood next to Tavius, I saw what they were guarding.
Benedict—but not only Benedict.
He lay face down beside a wooden pillar, one hand stretched out with his fingers clawing into the floor, legs sprawled and hair all fanned out and tangled, his torso heaving with rough, panting breaths that echoed through the room. He was in the act of pushing up onto his hands, lifting his head to look for—me. Gray eyes glazed with anguish and blazing with fury met mine. His lips moved, I thought in the shape of my name. As I watched in horror, he writhed, groaning, rolling onto his back with his head thumping to the floor.
And Lord Clothurn, kneeling near Benedict’s head, reached out and patted his shoulder as if to comfort him. I wanted to rip it off his wrist and stuff it up his ass.
Clothurn. Here. With Benedict.All it took was a pretty face to get him off his guard.
Tavius had used Clothurn to lure Benedict here, then. And even though I hadn’t expected any better from Benedict, it still cut like a knife that it had worked.
Even worse, I didn’t think Tavius had used Clothurn at all—it appeared to have been more of a collaboration. Clothurn’s richly embroidered mauve silk suit, probably donned for a party before Tavius had come along to upset Clothurn’s plans, bore a few streaks of dirt, and the trousers would be utterly ruined by the splintery floor. But he didn’t have any bruises on him, and he seemed perfectly calm.
No. He hadn’t been taken prisoner. He’d come herewillingly, as Tavius’s ally.
Gods, I’d been so incredibly stupid. I’d disliked Clothurn for his insolence, and his foppishness, and…oh, I couldn’t lie to myself. For being Benedict’s lover. But I’d never taken him seriously. How the fuck had he known to write to Tavius, specifically, to vent his spleen about my replacing him in Benedict’s bed? That nagged at me, but the answer couldn’t help me now, no matter how curious I might be. However he knew, it must have been him, and now he was obviously ready, more than ready, to force Benedict to belong to him.
Nausea welled up in me, my fist clenching as I fought the urge to throw myself on him, rip him away from Benedict, and beat him to a pulp. It was vile, unimaginably vile, and if I survived this he’d be the first I strung up by his toes. I’d build a new, special dungeon, with extra rats and slime, just for him.
Benedict tried again to sit up, and this time he managed to get himself propped on one elbow, his back to the pillar. The grooves around his mouth and between his brows gave me a preview of what he might look like in forty years, and the damp pallor of his skin could’ve belonged to a corpse.
“Lucian,” he said, his harsh rasp barely audible this time. He hadn’t looked away from me. Every line of his body showed his terrible, desperate tension, as if he strained toward me with all his strength.
That broke my determination to remain still, and I surged toward him, seeing nothing but him, my skin prickling with the need to touch him and feel his arms around me and his lips on mine…
Tavius caught me by the arm and yanked me back, and I stumbled into him, wincing as his fingers dug in with punishing strength. I forced myself to stop struggling before he injured me, but not going to Benedict hurt more than Tavius’s grip, a deep, burning ache under my ribs, a frantic buzzing in my blood andnerves.
“Let me go to him, damn it,” I cried. “Let me go. You want me to—so let me go to him!”
Tavius examined me, pale eyes flashing with malice. “You’re too attached to him,” he said, almost as if thinking out loud, and a nasty shiver went down the back of my neck at his tone of regret. There was only one reason he’d sound like that—only one action he could take, as committed to his course as he was, that would cause him any sorrow. “You don’t see him for what he is. It’ll have to be Lord Clothurn. You’re willing enough to do it, eh?”
“Of course, my lord,” Clothurn said, sounding more than willing. Eager, as if the thought of enslaving Benedict to his will had him panting to spread his legs. “I only want to serve my rightful duke. And—and help Lord Benedict.”
The way his sharp, avid gaze rested on Benedict made my flesh crawl. I’d already assessed Clothurn as someone who’d betray his own grandmother if it meant more wealth, prestige, or the envy of his peers, and controlling Benedict, and his magic, would give him all of those.
But he wasn’t simply eager for power. This aroused him, excited him.
No. I couldn’t allow this to happen. The thought of “playing my part” in Tavius’s plan revolted me down to my bones, but I’d rather die than leave Benedict at Clothurn and Tavius’s mercy.
“I’ll do it, Tavius. You don’t need him.” My voice came out hoarse and thin, my heart beating so fast I could hardly force words out at all. “Tell me what you need me to do, and I will.”
“You’re not going to do anything,” Tavius snapped, and he wrenched at my arm, making me flinch and cry out. That hadn’t been an accident. He wanted to hurt me. And when he leaned down and looked into my eyes, I saw my death there.“Soon he’ll be begging for relief, and Lord Clothurn will be the one to give it to him, because I trust him to do it right. Keep him under control. Formidable!” He shook me, his voice rising to a shout. “Hardly! Groveling on the floor, worthless without his army or his magic. That’s the man our father thought to put on my throne. The man you were willing to submit to! Look at him!”
Tavius grabbed me by the nape and wrenched my head around, nearly snapping my neck. Benedict had gotten halfway up again, braced against the pillar, his body visibly shaking and sweat dripping from his forehead. He half fell against the pillar, curling in on himself, his low, guttural groan fading to a wheeze.
But he didn’t fall.
Benedict was fighting to the last, even as the potion Tavius had poisoned him with stole away his magic and his self-control and racked him with pain and fever.
Because I understood at last the full scope of what Tavius had done. The potion hadn’t just altered Benedict’s magic to be tied to another man, it’d accelerated his dusk mage’s curse, bringing on the crisis of his symptoms immediately. If he didn’t sate himself in another man’s body soon, very soon, he’d die: an apoplexy, or the vessels in his heart bursting from the pressure, or convulsions.
