The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 5: The Gift of the White Moon, Part 1

 In the morning, in the light and sanity of the Imperial apartments she could barely even remember returning to, she felt differently. Much differently. During the weeks into months she had spent perilous evenings sneaking into Talinara to dally with Tacen, she had often imagined how she might feel upon waking up after giving in to what he wanted; what Carala denied she wanted. At worst she had imagined guilt, regret, shame.

She had never imagined horror. But that was the exact, the precise, the only way to describe what flooded her heart and brain as she rose to consciousness that morning. Every detail of the night before returned to her as she woke, shiveringly aware that she had allowed a werewolf to claim her maidenhead. If the darkest stories about such creatures were true, then she was now his. And it would only be a matter of time before he sank his fangs into her flesh and made her into a wolf like himself. Hadn't he said as much, with his mad talk of the moon and sharing his gift with her?

Carala could hardly breathe, shrinking into the furthest corner of her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. When Elana came to her apartments that morning to help her dress for the day, she dismissed her at once, claiming illness, but forbidding Elana to send for a Madrenite sister to examine her. "It's nothing, it's nothing, just a touch of a cold," she had insisted to Elana. The handmaiden had gone away troubled, but she knew better than to gainsay the princess.

But she was an imperial Princess of the House of Deyn, and she could not hide in her apartments for the rest of her life. Somehow she found the steel to summon Elana back later that day, and even exchange pleasantries with her as the handmaiden helped her into her corset and skirts and brushed her hair. "You're quite recovered then, your highness?" Elana had asked as she laced up the princess's boots.

"Very much so, thank you Elana. I think I may have just eaten a bad pasty last night."

"Ooh, don't let the chamberlain or your father hear that. Cook will be down in the dungeons by nightfall."

Carala laughed dutifully, both of them knowing full well that Chamberlain Tienn would never impose such a punishment for a scrap of bad mutton and that the Emperor very well might. The rest of the day had passed in a blur, attending her lessons with her tutors, waiting on her mother, futilely working on Denisius's portrait, which until today had actually been progressing surprisingly well. When a courier arrived that night, she felt an almost superstitious dread, and, to her shame, all the aching excitement and anticipation she had felt every other time Tacen had sent an invitation to her.

The note had once more said 11, but this time instead of a sketch of hart horns there was scrawled a rough illustration of the Curate's Tower. And there was no question mark this time. That one small difference was enough to tell her that this was no longer an invitation.

It was a summons.

And she answered it, sneaking down into the city once more, heading toward Hearth Town and the Maathinhold.

She answered it because she was his. She belonged to the wolf.

It terrified her that whispering such things to herself aroused her so very much.

He was waiting for her that night, stripped to the waist and his eyes already a blazing gold. Tacen waited for no invitation before embracing her, his mouth hungry on hers, his hands already sliding her cloak to the floor and undoing laces and buttons. "Wait," she stammered. She needed to ask him things; needed to know what he intended to do with her; needed to tell him she was no wolf's plaything and that this had to come to an end, now. "Wait -- I -- "

"What is it, my lovely princess?" His smile was kind. His wolf's eyes spoke of a truer hunger.

"How is it you're still in Talinara?" she asked breathlessly.