Dark Enchantment

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Janine Ashbless

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: Dishonour

  2: Pique Dame

  3: And Their Flying Machines

  4: Ruby Seeds

  5: Cold Hands: Warm Heart

  6: The Scent of Hawthorn

  7: Chimaera

  8: Scratch

  9: The Red Thread

  10: Janissaries

  11: Darkling I Listen

  Copyright

  About the Book

  In the follow-up to her peerless first collection, Cruel Enchantment, Janine Ashbless brings you more breathtaking tales of lust and magic, dark fantasy and even darker desire. An unearthly stranger who pursues a newlywed on her Mediterranean holiday, an opera production where emotions run out of control, and a ghost who wants one thing only from the descendant of her murderer are just three of the seductive and stylishly written stories that will tease, tempt and transport you to fantastic realms where dreams – and nightmares – can come true.

  About the Author

  Janine Ashbless is a well-established writer of fantasy, horror and erotic fiction.

  She is the author of Burning Bright, Cruel Enchantment, Dark Enchantment, Divine Torment, Wildwood and Enchanted, all available from Black Lace.

  Also by Janine Ashbless

  Burning Bright

  Cruel Enchantment

  Divine Torment

  Enchanted (novella collection)

  Magic and Desire (novella collection)

  Wildwood

  For Annie

  who asked for a story

  Dishonour

  MY NAME IS Raihn and I am third concubine to Lord General Mershen. I was born in Halghat of the White Cliffs, in the east of the Eternal Empire, the sixth child of a prosperous perfume merchant. When I was eighteen my parents offered me as a gift to the Glorious General upon the occasion of him passing through the city, in the last throes of the civil war. My lord was most graciously pleased to accept me. This is a story about Lord Mershen. I want you to hear it.

  When news was brought that armed riders were approaching swiftly up the mountain road and that they did not bear the Imerho family banner, Surya ordered the servants to leave the house. Most obeyed, heading into the cedar forest; those that were left – and the slaves who had no right to flee – she told to hide in the cellars and the grain tubs in the kitchen. Above all they were not to attempt any kind of armed resistance: the House of Dark Needles had never been built to be defensible, and there were no soldiers among the men General Imerho had left with his only daughter. This was the oldest and the least accessible of the family’s holdings, their last refuge. It would not, she knew, remain so for long under any attack.

  Having made the one decision left up to her – flee or surrender – Surya paced the polished wooden floors, sick with fear, clutching her bow. It had a short span but was deeply recurved when strung, and it was the only thing that gave her comfort. A quiver of bronze-tipped arrows hung at her hip. If a soldier must surrender, her father had said long ago, then he should show that the choice was his. There is no respect for the helpless.

  Like all men of his class Imerho was full of military advice and Surya had grown up in awe of him. She would have liked to have had the poise of her mother, who’d accompanied her warlord husband to the very edge of the battlefield where she would live or die as he did, but Surya was too young and too untried for such stoic courage. She knelt briefly before the family shrine and thrust incense sticks into the basins of sand, but the gilded statues of the gods grinned at her with more than normal vacuousness it seemed, and mocked her trembling prayers: Let it be good news. Let it be peace. Let it be mercy.

  It was to be none of those things. She knew that when she heard hooves on the hard earth outside, heard a man yelling commands to keep the rear covered, and the order: ‘With me! Quickly!’

  She ran to the window and looked down upon a dozen horses and men milling about before the house – men with the long hair of soldiers, and the uniform of the Imperial Army but the cloaks of a noble’s household. The hot breath of the horses mingled with the mountain mist, and dew hung in the plumes of the helmets. A burgundy pennant bearing a white egret ensign swayed in a soldier’s grasp. She knew that livery, and for a moment her heart crashed against her breastbone. She could see no faces because of their bronze helmets, but heads were tilted watchfully towards the tall façade of the house.

  Burgundy cloaks, the white egret. It was Lord Mershen’s colours. She tasted the brief elusive sweetness of hope, remembering mornings in the Imperial Palace at Antoth even as she retreated from the window and the searching gaze of the men. Then doors slammed open below, echoes bouncing down the wooden corridors of the ancient building, and boots drummed on the boards. They hadn’t removed their shoes. Such flagrant disrespect for the house would have told, if nothing else did, of their intentions.

  But, a part of her protested, he was … He smiled …

  Recollections of winter mornings half an Empire away tangled her fingers as she bent and strung her bow. Mornings had been reserved on the Palace Field for the young women of the Imperial Court to practise the arts considered proper to their age and gender and class: horsemanship and archery. Not that they were ever expected to use those skills in battle, but for the Irolian people the raising of warriors was a matter of pride. Lions are not born of ewes, as her father had said. So Surya had, along with the dozens of other unmarried noble-women resident in the palace, clattered out dutifully on horseback each morning to ride at full gallop up and down the lists, turning their small horses with a twitch of the reins, shooting at targets both before and behind them from the saddle. It was a minor form of entertainment for the noblemen of the court too, assessing the marriageable women for skill and grace and looks.

  Lord Mershen had been a regular spectator. He’d always had some sort of reason to be there, she noticed: a meeting with other members of the Imperial Council, a game of tiles, a healthful stroll across the palace grounds. Always some excuse to be there, watching. At first she hadn’t even differentiated him from the other noblemen until, leaning on the balustrade one morning, he’d caught her eye and told her, ‘I should have you in my archery corps.’ His eyes had crinkled warmly when he smiled. She’d blushed. After that she’d been aware of him every time; it had rattled her somewhat, and made her practise with more determination.

  Protocol, of course, meant that she couldn’t talk to him without her father’s permission but only smile and look coyly pleased. She’d hoped that Mershen himself would make the proper enquiries to her father, but these hopes were dashed along with so many others as political strife had split the Imperial Council. She made do with gossip: that he was unmarried, and regarded as a competent soldier but stubbornly apolitical. An honourable man, they said in public – which meant that he lacked ambition and behind the scenes he had few allies.

  Then the civil war had washed over them all, sweeping so many noble houses away, and alliances and favours and ambition had been tested to breaking point. And honour, it turned out, still had hard value. Now he was here, and of all men, all the Emperor’s loyal men, that it should be him – Surya didn’t know what to think. Perhaps he would help her. Perhaps.

  But deep down she knew that if he were truly an honourable man he would not permit himself that.

  Surya had a half-formed intention of waiting for them in her father’s audience hall, where she felt some dignified and defiant attitude might be struck. But her nerve failed her when she set foot in the corridor; it was patently too long and exposed for her to retreat all the way down, so
in a flurry of panic she slipped into the family sitting room opposite the shrine and pulled the door shut. This was the room where her mother liked to lie on a day couch and watch the ever-changing clouds as they broke and formed and flowed upon the mountains. A screen door in the far wall gave access onto the balcony and Surya wondered if it was possible to slip out that way, to drop into the garden and scale the wall in her embroidered robes and flee into the forest.

  It wasn’t. The door slammed open and a man’s voice shouted, ‘Here! Sir!’

  Surya whirled, nocked and drew in one motion, determined that she would go down proudly, as her father would wish it. But her best intentions vanished as a man in full armour pushed into the room and she backed up several steps, only halting when her thighs connected hard with a rosewood cabinet.

  ‘Lady Surya.’

  The bleached tunic was stained with mud – and with a reddish filth that was not mud – but there was gilding on his breastplate and helm. He was followed by a squad of soldiers even more dirtied than he, brandishing long-bladed spears. Their bronze kilts rattled with every step as they fanned out.

  ‘Lord Mershen!’ she gasped.

  The one in the ornate helmet held up his hand and turned his head briefly. ‘Hold.’ His voice was as she remembered it, but hoarse from bellowing on the battlefield. As his men halted he pulled his helmet off to give her a long, even stare. There was no warmth in his face on this occasion. He looked grey and sweaty and two grim furrows were etched down to the corners of his mouth. ‘Put the bow down, Surya, and we will talk.’

  Nodding, she lowered her bow and slacked the tension. It was a relief to be told what to do, even by him.

  ‘Wait for me outside,’ Mershen ordered his men. Surya, feeling light-headed, watched as the soldiers withdrew. Walking back to the door, he kicked it shut then dumped his helmet on a cupboard top.

  ‘The war’s over then,’ she said, wondering how she could sound the words when there was no breath in her lungs.

  He nodded.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ There was neither regret nor triumph in his voice.

  No need to ask about her mother then, she knew: Lady Imerho would have opened her wrists when her husband’s standard fell. ‘My brothers?’

  ‘All died on the field. None were captured.’

  ‘Oh.’ She knew she should be proud of them but she felt only dizzy. It wasn’t real. None of this could be real. ‘All of –’

  ‘You are the last of Imerho’s line.’ He was a tall man and the armour looked like it belonged on him: far more so than the courtly robes she’d last seen him in, almost a year ago.

  ‘May his star look down upon us,’ she whispered.

  Very pointedly, he did not echo her words. ‘Lady Surya …’

  For a moment the room seemed to swim. ‘I am a poor hostess,’ she said, her dry voice cracking a little. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

  Softly, he shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘My father’s estates produce the finest plum brandy in the Eternal Empire.’

  ‘That’s not what I came here for.’

  ‘You’ve been sent to kill me?’ she said faintly. The other possibility flared like a firework in the night. ‘Or am I to be taken to the Emperor?’

  Mershen’s mouth twisted. ‘The Radiant Emperor considers that only the expurgation of Imerho’s bloodline will fit the crime of his treachery. No descendants, Surya. None may pray for him.’

  She covered her mouth. She had no cause to expect anything less, but the fear was like a black tide rising in her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Surya.’ His voice dropped, became gentle. He sheathed his blade and pulled his cloak over his head, discarding it.

  ‘He made you do this?’

  Mershen blinked, like a wince. ‘I volunteered.’ And when he saw the betrayal in her eyes he added: ‘I will make it swift and honourable. There are others who would not, Surya. You must be brave, as your brothers were.’

  ‘My brothers …’

  ‘All died with unbroken hearts. No one can question your family’s courage.’ Just their loyalty, he left unsaid. ‘Now you must live up to that.’

  He doesn’t want me to start screaming and weeping, she thought, recognising the command in his words. That would sicken him. ‘I’m not ready,’ she whispered.

  ‘No one is. But you are of warrior blood, Surya. You can do this.’ His eyes held hers, implacable but not cruel. He was the object of all her fears, and yet perversely the only source of comfort.

  She stared. ‘Yes,’ she said at last.

  ‘Is that gold thread in your robe?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘Undo it. Better you bare your neck.’ Quietly his hand went to rest on the pommel of his blade. He sounded calm; if any man was capable of being a reassuring executioner then it was he. But there was something in his eyes that betrayed him.

  Dry-mouthed, Surya laid aside her bow and fumbled with the fastening at her throat, perversely ashamed that her fingers were so clumsy. Every loop of braid was agonising. She pictured the way he’d smiled at her from the palace balcony, the smile she’d held secretly to her heart. She did not really know this man, she reminded herself. She only knew that he’d watched her warmly, long ago. At that memory her heart cracked. ‘I have a request,’ she blurted, not looking at his face. ‘Before I die.’

  ‘Yes?’ Mershen folded his arms, a little wary.

  Under her fingertips the pulse in her throat was hammering. ‘Honour my wish, please, my lord.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember the women’s archery practice at the Imperial Palace?’

  Ever so slightly he let his guard down. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’d watch us.’

  The hard line of his mouth softened. ‘Upon occasion.’

  She bit her lip. ‘You’d smile at me when we passed.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was almost smiling now, sadly. ‘It was one of the better parts of my day.’

  ‘You were … fond … of me?’ Her voice nearly cracked.

  He nodded, his dark eyes filled with regret.

  Surya took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to die a maiden.’

  Those eyes widened. ‘What?’

  ‘You smiled at me. Do you know what you did to me? That became my reason for going each day. I wanted that smile. I wanted the way you looked at me …’

  A line appeared between his brows.

  ‘… I thought about you all the time. What it would be like if you did more than smile. What your hands would be like on me. What you were under those robes.’ She should have been scarlet with shame saying these things to a man, but the blood had fled from her face when he entered the room. ‘When the war started I prayed for your safety, just as I prayed for my brothers’ lives. More so. I hoped there would be peace. I wished in time you might …’ With a supreme effort she dragged her gaze up to meet his, finding it astonished and full of pain.

  ‘You’re shaming yourself,’ he said thickly.

  ‘I don’t want to die, Glorious General, not without knowing what it is like: the feel of a man’s skin on mine.’ She took a faltering step forwards. ‘What it would be like to have you on me, and in me, as I have dreamt. Please. Before you –’

  He closed on her, his hand gripping her arm. ‘This is wrong,’ he rasped.

  ‘And what you’re going to do isn’t?’

  He flinched. ‘Have it your way.’ Seizing her by the shoulders he whirled her sideways and slammed her against a pillar, nearly knocking the wind out of her. His hands were rough and determined; he tore straight through the fastenings of her robe and wrenched the cloth open, ripping the thinner material beneath to bare her breasts. Surya shut her eyes, shrinking back into herself; he was too big, too strong, too fierce. He smelled of sweat and horses. Under his armour he was all hard muscle and his thighs were crushing hers. His hands grabbed her soft little breasts like he wanted to squeeze the life from them.

  I asked him for t
his, she told herself. I will bear it. I will endure it. It’s what I wanted.

  He was panting hard through clenched teeth. This wasn’t even lust: it was anger. Anger at her for rejecting his honour, anger at an emperor who would insist on such a task – and most of all anger at himself. Involuntarily she cried out as his fingers bit painfully into her flesh. Without warning he went still, one hand on her shoulder, one squashing her left breast, her nipple pinched between his fingers. With his head bowed over hers, he made a noise almost like a sob. Then, ‘Surya.’

  She bit the inside of her lip to staunch the tears that were burning at the back of her eyes.

  ‘Do you really want this?’ he groaned.

  She whimpered. Then he lifted her face to his and kissed her. His lips were dry and a little chapped, and there was no anger in them at all, just deep pain and a fervent, haunted desire. She shook beneath them, opening to him, dissolving as his kisses soaked into her. He tasted of wine and blood and exhaustion, but he was warm on her cold skin and she pressed against him, trembling. A tear she had not held back slipped down over her cheek and he caught it on his thumb before brushing his lips across the planes of her face, as if he were tasting her skin.

  ‘Have you prayed to Tesub?’ he breathed, his mouth hot at her ear and throat.

  ‘Hhh?’ She was incapable of speech at that moment.

  ‘Ask her to accept your maiden sacrifice.’ He was pulling at the strapping of his breastplate. His words burned.

  ‘Ah.’ Of course; it was the ceremony for the wedding night: to offer one’s maidenhead to the goddess as a pure sacrifice. A woman who did not – oh gods, he was kissing her throat now and her whole body was shaking with the heat of those kisses – risked dying impure and being rejected by the gods. Oh. The tears were back again, brimming in her eyes. ‘I don’t know the words.’

  He pulled back momentarily to look her in the face. ‘Nor do I.’ He shrugged his breastplate off and laid it to the floor, deliberately making as little noise as he could. ‘Think. You must have heard women talk.’