The Royal Steward gave a yelp and leapt backwards. The Pashan’s eyes widened in shock just as Octurus started in astonishment and thrust himself in front of the sovereign, swiftly unsheathing the scimitar at his waist.

At once the guards at the door raised their spears. “Sir, on your command!” shouted the older of the two.

Octurus held out his free hand to the guards, the blade in the other still trained upon the woman. She glared at him, but the tears in her eyes gave him an inward twinge of pity.

“No,” she repeated more softly, but firmly. “Hostiva.”

The Royal Steward looked nervously between them, rubbing his hands together while beads of sweat formed on his temples. It was his job to deliver the ladies. He never had to deal with any sort of violence from them. Usually they were only too eager to bed the Pashan.

Octurus was nodding steadily to the woman, keeping his face trained on hers as he answered. “No—no need, Turius. Stand down. Your Highness, let me personally take care of this. Are you injured, Sire?”

Astan stood quite still, raising one hand to touch the thin beading line of red upon his cheek. His voice was deadly calm. “It is but a scratch, my good Lord Commander. But of greater interest… it would seem the outlander knows at least one word in our tongue. I wonder what else she knows.” His eyes glittered with malice. He advanced slowly closer, his predatory gaze trained on the woman, his movements sinuous as a snake’s.

She stared back at him and Octurus saw the fear in her eyes. She never blinked away the tears or wavered, though her neck was flushed and her grip tightened on the — oh by Astriana, it was only a bloody nail file, he could now see.

She was clearly no trained fighter, and posed no threat to them. But he knew that any further aggression on her part would only seal her fate in the gallows. He wondered just how many words she had begun to understand after all from his earlier exchange with the pashan.

The Lord Commander made a gamble. “Turius, Aran, lower your spears.”

“What—my Lord Commander?” said the senior guard.

“Do as I say,” snapped Octurus. Exchanging glances, the guards slowly lowered their spears and stood to attention once more. The woman watched them in confusion, then looked back again at Octurus.

“What is this, Brevir? Will you not strike her down now or must I?” Astan’s sharp voice cut in from behind him with a hiss.

“Please, Your Highness,” Octurus’s voice was firm and temperate, “it is best to deescalate the situation. We do not want a repeat of last year, with rumors still circulating in the palace…and beyond.” Octurus left the rest unspoken, as the mysterious deaths last year of several concubines, as well as one young lady of the court, was whispered about everywhere — though none were stupid enough to do so in front of the pashan or his allies.

Astan’s jaw tightened and his eyes became dull and black. “Baseless rumors.”

Octurus heard the hiss in the Pashan’s voice and prayed that His Serene Highness would restrain his anger lest he tip over the edge into full transformation. He was that much harder to control.

The Royal Steward chose to study the ground and pretend he couldn’t hear this exchange.

“Indeed, Your Highness, and we will show that you are a merciful ruler. And that is why,” and now Octurus, to the general astonishment of the room, was slowly crouching down and laying his blade on the floor, his eyes still on the woman’s, “we will show her that we mean her no harm. That we are a civilized realm.”

The woman watched him silently. Octurus rose slowly. Then, to her surprise, he bowed deeply and graciously to her. He gestured at the nail file in her hand, still thrust outward in warning, ludicrously ineffective at anything but scratching, or perhaps poking out an eye if she had very good aim, which he rather doubted. He wondered how many more seconds Astan would allow this little display to last before his impatient anger won out.

Hesitantly, the woman lowered her arm. Her eyes moved between Octurus, the Pashan, and the guards. The nail file clattered to the floor. Octurus smiled and nodded reassuringly, while the Royal Steward let out a sigh of relief. Behind him, Astan made a noise of irritation.

“Sire, please,” Octurus held out his arm before the Pashan could advance.

“And what now? What does my Lord Commander order his sovereign to do?” snapped Astan.

“It is not an order, Your Highness, but an appeal to your boundless mercy,” replied Octurus evenly, hoping that the pashan would be open to flattery since he was hardly open to reason. He knew that this hope was probably in vain, though. “Consider the challenges of getting this plan to work with the lady’s compliance as it is and the issue of proper communication. She has already made it clear that you frighten her, Sire. Let this one go. Her misery will not make any kind of good bedfellow.”

“Do I understand that you mean to let this insult upon my person go unpunished?” the Pashan spit out.

“The wound you have suffered today is indeed egregious,” said Octurus, trying not to let the sarcasm escape from his voice. “But consider, Sire. She does not speak our language, and may have no idea what she was summoned for to your chambers. In this state of confusion, Your Highness begins to undress her in a room full of men.”

Astan dismissed this as inconsequential. He, in fact, undressed many women in this room without thought for their modesty.

Octurus’s jaw was tight, but he kept his breathing steady. He gestured to the woman, who was watching the exchange warily, her arms folded across her chest defensively. “We must have her able to perform her role on what will be an arduous journey. The ruse must be believable to pull it off—at least at first. I am sure the Royal Steward has ready several other lovely ladies who are all too eager to please Your Serene Highness.”

At this, the Royal Steward stepped eagerly forward, bowing hastily. “Indeed, Your Highness. We just received fresh concubines as a gift from Mirun Province. I was saving them as a surprise for Your Serene Highness’s pleasure later this evening—but perhaps you would care to partake earlier…?” The steward’s brow positively glistened with sweat.

Astan inhaled sharply, his cold eyes calculating. Finally, he made a noise of disgust. “Oh very well. How tempting to throw her into the dungeon and be done with her. Brevir—see that the little whore is punished for her insolence—several lashings will do.”

Octurus only bowed, though he had no intention of doing any such thing. It was fortunate that Astan was so assured of his own will that it never occurred to him that his orders might not be directly followed every moment of every day. In this way, the Lord Commander had managed, over the past twenty-odd years, to pacify his sovereign and still sleep at night with some shred of a conscience.

“And now, Sire,” he said tightly, “I will have to take my leave to see about pulling off this trick of yours. I must coordinate the bridal caravan and see about the movement of our men.” In all his years of service, Brevir could not believe that he would ever have to organize a bridal trip.

Pashan Astan settled his own robes and cast a dark eye at his second-in-command. “Careful, Lord Commander. You have enjoyed a certain amount of liberty in how you address me. Do not abuse it or risk my displeasure.”

“Your Serene Highness.” Octurus gave a stiff bow.

Several hours later, Pashan Astan was in a much better mood. He stretched out languidly among the plush cushions and carpets, entertaining very different company from before, as ordered by the Royal Steward. He had spent himself thoroughly among the three women, then dismissed all but one, who he preferred to keep with him through the night.

His thoughts drifted back to the outlander, to her striking violet eyes. A shadow of a secret brushed at the edges of his mind, a faint whispering urging him to remember. But whenever he turned his gaze towards it, it seemed to edge away yet further from his field of vision, always hovering on the periphery of consciousness. Strange. What a curious sensation.

The guards kept their gazes fixedly at the wall as Astan rolled over to the young woman laying beside him, equally unattired, and began to suck her nipple. She closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure, and if her performance were somewhat exaggerated for his benefit, who was to say?

The prince had not been the greatest lover in her experience, she considered, as she stroked his head. But she knew better than to act anything less than worshipful in the royal bedchamber.

The long, white hair between her fingers felt different, and it took her mind several moments to register that the silky strands had dissolved into something smooth, hard and cool.

Her eyes flew open. The Pashan who she held in her arms was transforming from flesh into reptile, until it was not a man but a serpent she clasped to her breast, its thick, forked tongue flickering over her nipple.

The girl screamed and pushed herself back away from him. But the Pashan drew his sinuous, hard serpentine form around her body in a tight coil, wrapping down her leg until his head came to rest between her thighs.

A small, breathless cry fell from her flushed lips. Across the room, the guards stood silently impassive as the serpent drew cries from the girl well into the night.

It was not normally in the purview of the Lord Commander of the Armed Forces to deal with such matters. Yet Octurus Brevir felt annoyed and embarrassed about the entire salacious incident, and was concerned that it jeopardized this already tenuous false-bride plan. Certainly, the girl would go whether or not she wished. But he was a man of feeling and did not believe ladies should be subject to brutalities.

As he strode down the corridor towards the wing where the captive was being kept, he thought back to that day when his men had discovered her on the beach, unconscious and dazed, clearly in foreign surroundings. Her clothes and personal effects were unlike those of any kingdom he had seen before, but of doubtless quality. And by her demeanor and bearing, he was certain that she was no peasant.

And what if her origins were to be discovered? What if she were, say, a lady of a great house from across the seas? Brought to misfortune by shipwreck, perhaps. And with a family back home that was organizing a search party this very moment.

A family who may very well escalate the insult of their wronged kinswoman into yet another war. He struggled to remember the courtly dress of Bordeas, far south of them, but not inaccessible by ship. If she were born of a great family from Bordeas…

Well, it was opening doors that Octurus felt were unnecessarily foolish. Their resources were spent as it were, containing rebellion within the realm to the west. It was a province that decided it did not care to pay tribute any longer to what was feared to be a decaying kingdom. Octurus could not disagree with the perception. He scowled.

Communicating an apology to the young woman was challenging with the language barrier. But Octurus did his second best by sending in several handmaidens with trays of sweets, cosmetics, illustrated books, and anything he could think of that might amuse and comfort. After some consideration, he also ordered a hot bath to her room. If it were him, he would want to wash off the touch of Astan as soon as possible.

Though a loyal Verunian, he found his sovereign’s ways distasteful at best, and sometimes outright appalling. The commander came from a long line of military service, and his family could rival the Pashan’s in age and certainly respectability. His forebears were proud warriors, who had excelled in battle and brought honor to the house of Brevir. It left a sour taste in his mouth to see a pashan of the realm behave as if he were in a brothel of the lowest kind.

A movement—a swish of skirts—ahead of him in the corridor caught his eye. He glanced up, halting unconsciously, and for a moment a twisting feeling overcame him.

Though he had himself presented the outlander with the two handmaidens, he had since then personally spent little time in their company. But the elegant young woman before him he knew very well.

Lady Sartra of house Anadalia, daughter of the late Sirras of Anadalia. She paused in her walk and stood quietly, gazing pleasantly at the Lord Commander in slight inquiry.

Octurus returned her gaze but in his own eyes there was something held back. Though perhaps twenty years her senior, he found her to be sensible and intelligent, honest and direct in her conversation, and wise in her judgments—in addition, of course, to her many personal attractions.

Had he been a younger man, perhaps—but it was no good pursuing such a line of thought. Especially now, given the journey they were about to undertake, he reminded himself severely. At any rate, Lady Sartra would understand just how things were with the outlander.

It was not uncommon for young ladies of noble houses to serve at court before their eventual marriages. Yet he knew that Sartra’s position was unique, given the history of her father’s house.

Brevir had wondered, more than once, what Sartra privately thought of waiting on a woman of obscure birth…and of being ordered to follow that woman into barbarian territory. He also knew that any lady of Anadalia, no matter the current status of her house, would have been raised too well to comment on such a thing.

Instead, he bowed deeply before her, then asked, “Lady Sartra, may I trouble you for a moment?”

The woman smiled and bowed in return. “Yes, my lord.”

“How is she faring? I hope she has…recovered from earlier today.”

Sartra inclined her head slightly. “She has stopped crying and consented to take a bath. Beyond that, I cannot say, for as you know, her language is limited to a few phrases here and there. It does not allow for an easy understanding of her heart. But,” she ventured, letting her gaze meet his eye squarely, “I should say that she is finding her time here quite challenging.”

Brevir exchanged a knowing look with the handmaiden. Poor girl. It must be lonely and frightening to have no way to make herself understood or to understand, especially after the salacious episode this morning.

He sighed and rubbed his brow. “Please see that she has everything a lady might need to be comfortable. You will know better than I. And—no need to inform the Royal Steward of this. Or His Highness. Simply refer anyone who stops you, to me.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Sartra bowed again with a smile.

The conversation seemed to peter out for a moment, but Brevir felt unable to end it.

Instead he paused, glancing at her face, and continued, “And you, my lady…how are you faring in this…position?”

The young woman, her eyes so wise beyond her years, gazed steadily back at him, and there was a glint of humor there. “I consider it an adventure, my lord.”

Octurus nodded lightly. He hesitated, then said more quietly, “Should you feel, for even an instant, that you would suffer in the journey, I pray you would consider me—and any of my house—your friend and ally. I am all too familiar with the cruel caprices of our pashan. I fear the price you are set to pay is too great.”

Sartra’s serene expression never faltered, but her eyes glistened and for a moment she looked away, blinking quickly. Then she turned back and gave Octurus a genuinely warm smile. “Thank you, my lord. All will be well.”

Before he could say anything else, the lady bowed lightly and turned away in a swirl of robes. Brevir watched her quietly for a moment.

They were to prepare the outlander woman for travel as soon as their answer came from Erundfjal. Just a few more weeks, and this would all be over. Then they would both be gone…the outlander, and the noble daughter of a house some whispered carried the true royal bloodline of Verunia.

Octurus wondered whether or not the fate they were sending them to, were better than that which they might both come to here. On balance, he thought it might be.