Serpent and the Throne (Fedosian Wars #1)

11. Red Manor

eleven

Red Manor

The Red Manor wasn’t red or a manor. It was a white limestone palace. Though the night was gloomy, the moon peeked through a break in the clouds, and she saw the windows were red stained glass, making the palace appear filled with blood.

Sofia stood outside it, amazed at the size of it. The crenellations reminded her of the rook piece in chess, and parts of the palace being two stories tall, while others three, and a part of it even being a single story, made her think the original palace was extended upon by different lords of different generations.

The coach driver left as soon as he dropped her off, but the sentinel stayed. He didn’t say a word to her as they waited outside. A palace this size, Sofia was surprised it didn’t have servants to greet them. All the windows were dark and the place was silent, not even a barking dog.

They didn’t wait long, though, before Aleksei flew out of the woods on Tempest. He jumped off his horse in front of the grand oak gate, and said to the sentinel, “Thank you, Ruslan. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, Captain.” The sentinel rode off.

“Is this all right?” Sofia asked, uncertain.

“I don’t care,” was Aleksei’s answer. He was obnoxious and brazen, yet fragile and vulnerable. He worried and exhausted Sofia, yet she adored him all the same.

The gate opened with alchemy, the metal bar across it sliding out and lifting as Aleksei placed his hand on it, the gold on his vambrace glowing.

“Go ahead and go in. I have to feed and water him.” Aleksei ran his hand over Tempest’s mane. “I’ll be right there.”

“You don’t have any servants or even a stable hand?” Sofia asked.

“I can’t pay them,” Aleksei said. “My salary isn’t a lot and I’m not allowed to own anything. It’s the queen’s property. I just live here. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Sofia. “Don’t be long.”

“All right.”

Aleksei walked away with Tempest and disappeared into the night, heading to where Sofia assumed the stables were.

“All right,” she told herself, taking in the size of the palace, and still in disbelief the whole thing didn’t have a single servant. She took a big breath and entered.

She found the lantern and the flint by it right away, but didn’t wander around the pitch black palace and remained in the foyer. She slipped off her troublesome shoes and was sitting on the steps rubbing her feet when Aleksei came in. He kicked the door with his heel, and it shut with a long whining groan. He could do whatever he wanted to her here, murder her even, and no one would know or care to find out. Was she brave or just stupid? She met him two nights ago, precisely.

“Sore?” he asked and knelt in front of her, put her feet over his knee, and rubbed them.

She swung from being afraid of him to wanting him, back and forth, back and forth. She didn’t understand herself, never mind him. She’d never been so completely enthralled by someone before.

“Wine?” he asked.

She nodded. He got up and held out his hand, and she took it. He picked up her slippers and said, “The floor is clean, but I can carry you if you want.”

“It’s all right,” she said, following him. The flat, cool boards felt soothing to her feet.

Aleksei carried the lantern and they walked through the dark estate and entered his bedchamber. Chamber, she’d say because it was grand. He was a paradox. He was a duke’s son, the queen’s nephew, a soldier who couldn’t afford servants, yet had the grandest bedchamber Sofia had ever seen. She hadn’t seen the bed of many men, yet she knew the bedrooms of White Palace, and Aleksei’s was bigger.

He walked around his room, lighting candles, then squatted by the fireplace. The flames took hold shortly, emitting warmth, brightness, and adding the pleasant sound of dry wood cracking to the rain tapping the window. It was good they’d beaten the weather as the storm outside was growing in ferocity.

The floor was hardwood parquet inlaid with bronze veins, and magnificent oil paintings of historical battles hung along the walls. The cherrywood furniture was intricately carved, including the armoire, a books shelf, dressers, a writing desk, and even a dining one in front of the fireplace. Red velvet curtains with gold tassels hung over the large windows, and miniature models of castles and palaces, including Raven and White Palace, were encased in glass boxes along the walls. A map of Fedosia was spread above the mantle with territories of different lords marked with their crest, and the garrisons of the queen depicted with black shields.

Maps being considered secret documents, Sofia had never seen one so intricate, and she’d also never seen a map of Elfur, which Aleksei had displayed on his wall. Sofia walked to it, trailed her finger across Elfur, and tapped on a town marked by a star. “I was born here.” She cocked her head and gazed at the star as though it held memories of her childhood.

“Alten?” Aleksei asked. He was taking off his gear, she could hear the rustling.

“Yes. My grandmother, if she still lives, is the countess of Alten. I remember her castle was by a lake.”

“How old were you when you came here?”

“Five, I think,” Sofia said. “The archmage came to my home and took me. My father was visiting Fedosia when he fell in love with my mother and stole her from the Guards, which I hadn’t known before I came here. She died birthing me. My father was devastated. I remember his sadness.”

“Was he not executed here in Fedosia?” Aleksei asked.

“He was. He followed me here,” she said. “To help a poor peasant, he’d brought back to life some cows they’d lost to the wolves. The same peasant told on him to the church for a few coins, and my father was burned at the stake.”

Aleksei came and held her from behind, his arms wrapping around her waist. “That’s unfortunate.” He kissed the back of her neck. It wasn’t lustful, just affectionate, and it comforted her.

“What happened to your mother?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about your family.”

“She had an affair with a sentinel and my father killed her.”

“What?” Sofia looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“He was unstable and had flares of rage,” he said. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

Well, she had an idea, but she just got here. “What happened to the wine?”

“Right.” He had a wine shelf and went to it. “Red? White? Sparkling?”

“Red. You bring a lot of women here?”

“In my home? No, just you.” He showed her a bottle which was labeled like a potion.

“Liar.” It was a joke, not an accusation but he frowned at her. “Zoya Chartorisky likes you.”

“No.” He took the wine to the table, poured her a glass, and brought it to her. “Zoya likes fun, but her ambition is the throne. I’m not Niko. It’s not something I can give her.”

“Good luck to her,” Sofia said. “People who marry into your family don’t live long, do they?”

“Niko is different. He will change Fedosia when he’s tsar. I know it’s hard to see through the windows of a castle or the shutters of a coach, but the country is burning. Our harvests have failed three years in a row though lords’ tables don’t show it. The poor give their last to the church, praying for blessings, and we hang a father when he’s caught stealing a handful of grain for his starving children.

“Just two more years till he comes of age, and he’ll change this country, you will see.”

He believed what he was saying, she saw that. She wasn’t so hopeful, but caressed his face and rose on her tiptoes to taste his lips.

He pulled her to him. “Tell me what you want me to do to you. I want to please you.”

“Last night was good.” She burned with embarrassment. It was uncomfortable thinking these things, never mind saying them out loud to another person, a man whose house she was in.

He carried her to his bed, the four-poster beautifully carved walnut wood, upholstery draped with red velvet. “Pick a word that’s not please, stop, or no.” He lay her down on the bed and reached over and pinched the lantern, leaving the fireplace as the only source of light. “Make sure it’s something you’ll remember. You’ll have to say it for me to stop.” The darksteel caught the firelight as he flicked a knife in his hand.

“Wait, it’s my aunt’s dress!”

“I’ll get her a new one.” He cut the front of the dress, then ripped it off.

Sofia woke with a groan and wiped her face, complaining in grunts as she felt every moment of her bad decision as an ache in her body. Bluebird was the word. Why, though? Prince was green with a yellow chest. She kept thinking of that—macaw, parrot, green bird, yellow bird, dead bird… not bluebird. She looked at her wrists where the binding had left marks. It was his way of claiming her, she thought. Her dress was ruined. She was ruined. She could hear the rain, but the curtains were closed and she didn’t know what time of the day or night it was. She turned and found Aleksei not there.

“Aleksei?” She sat up. The fire had been stoked. She remembered it being embers before they fell asleep. The door was closed but he wasn’t in the room.

She got out of bed. Picking up her dress from the floor, she inspected the damage. A cut right down the middle of the bust and then a giant tear, but it was along the gold lacing at the front, and she supposed a good enough seamstress could repair it without it being too obvious. Papa or Lev weren’t going to try putting on the dress anytime soon. Lev might wear a dress, but not his mother’s, hopefully.

A shiver passed through her as she recalled the night, her belly growing warm.

She went to the wardrobe, found folded and stacked soft cotton attire for sleeping, picked up a simple white shirt, the length coming down to her thighs, and went to look for Aleksei. She had to go home, whatever time it was.

Thankfully, it was still night she found out as she walked through the empty palace, the only sound the rain barraging the windows and the roof. It occurred to her he might have gone to check on his horses as they would have wolves in such a wooded area. She was on her way back to the bedroom and had gotten turned around in the dark when she saw a faint glow down the corridor.

“Aleksei?”

The rest of the house was so dark she’d seen the light many rooms away, but at the end of it, she found the washroom. The walls the color of red coral, and the floor patterned breathlessly, it was easy to miss the blood, but the nine-tail whip made of darksteel chain was not.

“Aleksei?”

He was sitting in a tub of water, his back to her, and didn’t respond. The injuries on his back were fresh and she realized his other bruises may have been self-inflicted as well. She went around him and sat on the edge of the tub. He had his legs pulled up to his chest, and his forehead was on his knees. The water was freezing cold.

“Aleksei,” she whispered, and ran her hand through his wet hair. “Aleksei, the water has grown cold. Why don’t you come out?” She wasn’t sure the bath had ever been warm.

He lifted his head and his eyes gleamed red like the watchmen. She wasn’t afraid of him, though. He just looked dazed.

“Oh come on, darling. What are you doing?” She saw the metal cilice garter on his thigh, and he’d pulled it so tight the spikes bit into his flesh. “What did you do that for?” She put her hands in the cold water and released the garter which was tightened with a strap. The thing was wicked when she pulled it out, the spikes nasty like fangs. He bled in the water. “What did you do this for?” She frowned, dropping the metal on the floor. The rain lashed at the stained glass window, arched as though they were in the church. “Aleksei?”

“I came inside you. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m dirty.” He was out of it.

“I don’t care about… What do you mean? Never you mind, get up, come on.” She tried pulling him out, but he took his hand from her.

“I killed my brother. He was so little.” Tears ran down his wet face, mixing with the cold water. “He was so little. I got upset because Father loved him,” he whispered.

She didn’t make anything of it. He wasn’t in the right mind. “Aleksei, it’s all right.”

“I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it. I can’t fucken stand it when she touches me.” He banged his head, and Sofia held his hand so he’d stop.

“Aleksei!” she yelled.

He gasped, blinking, and the awful glow in his eyes dimmed, turning to their normal scarlet, catching the candlelight as he frowned.

“The water is cold. Get up,” she said.

He looked at her, then dropped his gaze to her hands holding his wrists. “Ah fuck. I’m sorry. I…”

“It’s fine. Just get up. You’re going to get sick.”

She helped him up and the water ran red down his leg. She brought him a cloth from the folded stack on a gold and red stool, then looked for something to bandage his wound on the shelf with bottled oils and some potions.

“Do you have an apothecary room?” she asked. He was getting dressed behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw he had old puncture scars from the cilice down the same thigh and on his other leg as well.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his face, then mouthed, “Fuck.”

She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it and humiliate him further because he was distressed, but she did worry for him. Self-flagellation wasn’t an uncommon way to atone but she’d never seen it so severe. With what they said about the Shields, about how their alchemy affected their mind, she wondered if he was redlining already. But he was so young, and it saddened her.

As she watched him in the reflection of a small mirror, perhaps used for grooming, he stood by the arched doorway with his forehead pressed against the stone frame. He’d been mouthing curses to himself, his shirt hanging from his hand, then he put that on and wiped the damp hair falling down his face before asking, “Do you want me to take you home?”

“I’m sure the Guard household can get by without me for a few hours.” She turned, putting on a smile. “Don’t wear old trousers over a wound like that. Let me bandage it at least, so show me your apothecary room.”

As dawn broke, the chilly rain still nagging on, Sofia rummaged through the kitchen which was on the side of the palace nobilities of Krakova used to hold their afternoon teas. Aleksei had a few rooms he used as his own in the west wing of the palace, separated by an oak gate, and the rest was for the pleasure of the throne. He didn’t complain. He was grateful to have the handful of rooms and the stables.

Sofia didn’t have much practice cooking, but managed to make a couple of bowls of porridge with some leftover wheat she found, and brought that to his bedroom, beginning to see why he’d have a dining table in there. She didn’t clean up, though. Whoever wanted to use the kitchen next would bring their servants and do that.

She’d bandaged his leg with some healing oils, and he’d dressed since in a white cotton shirt and brown trousers, not so menacing without all that black on him. He had his head laid on his folded arms on the dining table and looked up when Sofia entered with the bowls and closed the door with her foot. He looked disheartened, following her with his scarlet gaze but not saying much.

“Here, eat something.” She set the hot food down and settled across from him. The table was small, barely large enough for four, and she was an arm’s reach from him. “Aleksei.” She gestured at the bowl and dropped the spoon in it.

“I didn’t think this through, that I’d have nothing at home to give you. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Aleksei, it’s all right. So as long as you eat. Otherwise, I’ll be upset.”

He straightened up and spooned the porridge. Sofia tasted her own. She’d put some honey and butter she’d found, and it wasn’t too bad.

“You’re not going to Raven today. You don’t need to be riding in the rain. You’re taking a day off,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“You’re going to stoke the fire,” she continued. “Then you’re going to tell me what you like. We’re doing that. Then we’re going to sleep.” She was aware home existed but decided to forgo it for a few hours. Should she leave now, he’d think it was because of what he did, and he looked so fragile at the moment she wanted to take care she didn’t drop him.

“What do you mean, what I like?” he asked.

“Why don’t you think about it,” she said. “I want to please you.”

The way he looked at her, he didn’t hear it often, not nearly enough, and someone should say it. He was a darling, her darling.