Page 1 of Davoren
Chapter 1
Thejasmineincensecouldn'tmask the stench of sulfur seeping through the silk curtains. I shifted on the bench, silver chains singing their soft metallic song against the lacquered wood. They were ceremonial shackles, beautifully filigreed, but that didn’t make me any less of a prisoner. Across from me, Mira dozed fitfully, her handmaid’s uniform still pristine despite the dust that found its way through every gap in the caravan's ornate construction.
Dawn light filtered through red silk, painting everything in shades of blood and fire. Fitting, considering where they were taking me. I flexed my wrists again, testing the give of the restraints. The chains were beautiful work—delicate patterns etched into each link, moonstones set at regular intervals to catch the light. My father had insisted they were the finest craftsmanship, part of the traditional marriage procession. He'd said it with that same distant smile he'd worn since my brother died, the one that never quite reached his eyes.
Through the beaded partition separating us from the driver's platform, I counted shadows. Two guards sleeping, one keepingwatch. The morning shift change wouldn't come for another hour at least. My fingers found the hairpin hidden in my elaborate braids, its point filed sharp over weeks of secret preparation. Not sharp enough to pick locks, perhaps, but sufficient for other purposes if needed.
Mira stirred, catching me mid-assessment. Her eyes widened slightly before dropping to her lap—a servant's trained response to finding her betters engaged in something questionable.
"Did you sleep at all?" I kept my voice low, intimate. The kind of tone that invited confidences.
"Some, my lady." She glanced at my wrists, then away. "Are they . . . are they very uncomfortable?"
I managed a rueful smile. "My father assured me they're the height of fashion in Ashfall. Apparently, Lord Solmar appreciates a bride who arrives properly adorned." The bitter irony tasted familiar on my tongue.
Mira's fingers twisted in her lap. She was young—maybe seventeen to my twenty-two—with the kind of nervous energy that suggested she'd never traveled beyond her home district before this journey. Perfect for what I needed.
"Have you served in Lord Solmar's household long?" I asked, shifting to ease the pressure on my spine. The bench hadn't been designed for comfort.
"Only since last month, my lady. When your engagement was announced." She darted another glance at me. "They brought six of us from the capital to prepare for your arrival."
"Six?" I kept my tone casually curious. "That seems excessive for one bride."
"Well . . ." Mira lowered her voice further, leaning forward slightly. "There's talk among the senior staff. About the previous ladies."
I held my breath, careful not to seem too eager. Information was currency, and I'd been trading in it since childhood. "Previous ladies?"
"Two wives before you, my lady." Mira's words came faster now, the universal need to share gossip overcoming servant's discretion. "The first died in childbirth, along with the baby. Red fever, they said, though some whisper it was something else. She was very young—barely sixteen."
My stomach clenched, but I kept my expression mildly interested. "And the second?"
"Lady Rosanna. She lives at the mountain estate now. Retired, Lord Solmar says." Mira's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "But the cook's assistant has a cousin who delivers supplies there. Says she never leaves her rooms. Says she talks to people who aren't there."
The hairpin bit into my palm where I'd clenched my fist. Two wives, both conveniently removed from public view. My father had to have known. The trade routes between our territories were too lucrative to ignore such details.
"The roads through the Fire Wastes," I said, changing the subject before my anger showed. "Do you know which route we're taking?"
Mira blinked at the shift. "I . . . no, my lady. The guards don't tell us such things."
"We're following the Old Serpent's Trail." I traced the path on my skirt, a habit from years of map study. "It's longer than the Northern Pass, but safer during drake mating season. See how the light's shifting? We'll reach Ember Oasis by midday, then push through Bali's Crossing before nightfall." I caught myself before launching into a dissertation on volcanic soil composition and its effects on pack animal endurance. Old habits from my tutor's endless lessons.
"You know so much, my lady." Mira's admiration was tinged with something else—pity, perhaps. All that education, and here I sat in chains, being delivered like a prize mare.
I worked the hairpin free, keeping my movements small. The lock was standard merchant-class, more decorative than secure. Three tumblers, if I was lucky. Four if my father had actually invested in quality, rather than just looks. The pick slipped almost immediately, my angle hampered by the short chain between my wrists.
"Damn," I muttered, then caught myself. Ladies didn't curse. Ladies certainly didn't know how to pick locks. But then, ladies weren't usually sold to pay their father's debts either.
Mira watched with wide eyes as I tried again, saying nothing. The second attempt went no better. The chain was too short, the angle impossible. I'd need both hands free to make any progress, which defeated the entire purpose.
A soft sob made me look up. Tears tracked down Mira's cheeks, though she tried to muffle the sound with her sleeve.
"What's wrong?" I abandoned the lock, leaning forward as much as the chains allowed.
"I'm sorry, my lady. It's just . . ." She hiccupped. "There was a boy. Back home. We were going to . . . but then the summons came, and I had to leave, and I'll never see him again, and—"
"What's his name?" I interrupted gently.
"Toma. He works in his father's bakery." She smiled through her tears. "Makes the most wonderful moon cakes. Honey, cinnamon and white butter. He was going to speak to my father after harvest festival."
