Page 11 of Besieger
Dulior’s second husband was a tavern keeper in Poitiers. She had set her eyes on the son of themaire[4]but Rorgon had been against it.
“Do not fly so close to the sun, my flower. You can get away unnoticed as the widow of a tradesman, but the widow of the mayor’s son?” he tsked at her, disappointed. “I have taught you better than that. If it is a younger lover you crave, call someonefrom the servants into your bed. That way, when it is time to move on you can have the dullard kill your husband and let him answer for the deed.”
She followed her master’s advice but eventually it was the mayor’s son who Dulior ensnared in her web. No other interested her once she had the young man in her sights and in her arms. Behind her maker’s back she had him enthralled and begging, a slobbering creature at her feet. She did not even have to sow the seed of murder into his ardent mind, the notion to rid her of the decrepit groom came to him unbidden. A hunting accident he called it, the gory scene of his affection. The man was still wearing the clothes with which he had rolled in the mud and stabbed her husband. The corpse lay gutted in the forest. He had seen carcasses torn apart by wild boars, he was sure his handiwork had mirrored it to perfection.
“Go home and wait,” Dulior kissed his face, permitting him to grope and pull her close.
This fresh smell of carnage all over her lover intoxicated her.
It took Rorgon little time to uncover the truth, and if he could he would have murdered the youth with his own hands. It vexed him to allow the fool to live long enough so the town’s folk could drag him behind a cart through the town square before finally hanging him from the tavern keep’s gate. All as a means to get some of the man’s possessions to pass to his widow, and ensure no blame befell Rorgon’s prized flower.
“You rid yourself of them too soon, my darling,” her master shoved her against the wall, his fingers closing tightly around her throat. “Learn to toy with them at least a little before you ruin everything I have given you. The next one dies bymyhand whenIdeem he has become replaceable.”
His nails dug into her skin, drawing blood which mixed with the red of her hair.
Dulior had married twice and twice she had her husbands killed. She knew nothing would change with the third or the hundredth one, no matter how Rorgon threatened her. She hadalready made it into her mind to rid herself of him and cease to be used as cattle, her worth slowly diminishing.
DULIOR, 1094
Count di Flaviari was so in love with his young bride that it never occurred to him to ask why her guardian had to reside in their home.
“My ward gets weary without me, my lord. Dulior is a delicate flower, as you can see,” Rorgon explained with such fervour, pressing an open palm to his chest.
The three of them were sitting across a lavish table, the candle light flickering across their faces and the paintings on the wall. The cooks had outdone themselves in preparing the meal to welcome their master home, newly married.
“Look at her, my lord,” Rorgon lifted his wine glass and gestured at her untouched plate, “she is so overwhelmed to be called yours that she has barely taken a bite.”
He laughed at his own words, pretending to drink from the glass.
“My dear, is the food not to your liking?” the Count leaned in and covered her hand with his. He gave her a light squeeze. His whole face was alight with love and kindness that for a moment Dulior allowed herself to love him back.
“It is, husband,” she nodded and lifted the fork with her free hand. Rorgon had tried to teach Dulior the devices in this devilish game of mimicry; to be an echo of the woman she once was, not the daemon wearing her face. How to dine on food she could no longer chew and swallow, how to sip from cups she filled for her husbands but never herself. She had never mastered the pretence of eating, disliking the ugliness of lifting morsels to her lips ortearing bread only to toss it under the table. “But tell me more of Lombardia. You promised you would take me there.”
“Ah, yes,” the Count smiled, already overcome with emotion at the memory of his homeland. He snapped his fingers and a servant brought a flagon of red wine. The servant refilled her glass first, then her husband’s and last her master’s.
Gustave di Flaviari took a long sip and smacked his lips in approval. Neither daemon moved to mimic his drinking. They watched, unblinking, as he fell into a songlike account of his travels to Italia. One day he would take her there, so she could bask in the sun and feast on sweet wines and local delicacies.
Her current husband was a tentative lover, patient when the Countess did not wish to venture outside during the day. Her fragile health did not allow her to travel far and the sunlight hurt her eyes. She would rather spend the days indoors tending to his household until it was nightfall and they could walk together through Paris. Gustave arranged carriages and servants to take her to balls and galleries. He counted the days until he could take her to the court and see her wear a dress worthy of her station among the other ladies.
Despite keeping a room with them, Rorgon spent little time in the mansion. As in the past, he disappeared for days at a time, but Dulior no longer relied on him to feed her. A daemon’s instincts had taken root and she had begun to hunt alone. Desperate for the blood of sucklings, she was distraught to discover that infants were hard to find and even harder to take without drawing suspicion. Feeding quickly became a chore; something she both craved and resented. The children she came across on the streets were too old, too dirty. She needed something smaller, innocent, still carrying the scent of its mother’s milk.
Finally, defeated by hunger, she extended her palate to adults. In a city as big as Paris it was easy to leave their emptied bodies on the cobblestones and resume her evening stroll. She would drain two, sometimes three a night. They did not taste as sweetand savoury as the children. Nor could they quench the thirst. And yet, the more she drank, the stronger she became. Within a fortnight, she discovered she could now lift the heavy stone benches in the garden. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hear her servants talking on the different levels of the house. Once she even glimpsed inside their minds, startled by the uncontrolled volley of thoughts. Dulior would ask a maid a question and listen as the girl’s mind galloped across the day’s activities before it arrived at the task her mistress quizzed her on. She listened and pried into the people around her, lost in a symphony only she could hear.
No matter how hard she concentrated, Dulior could not hear Rorgon’s thoughts. He would sit and talk with her husband at dinner, and her husband’s mind overflowed and drowned her, but her maker’s remained locked; that silence made her uncomfortable.
“Why can’t I?” Dulior had asked, her patience worn thin.
Her master looked up from the letters he had fished out of Gustave’s drawer. He was searching for a seal, a letter of introduction of some sort. He did not bother explaining himself to her. Why would he anyway, she was nothing more than a flower meant to be plucked by any man he deemed worthy of her dark petals.
“Daemons cannot read the minds of those who made us. The Blood is too thick,” he had answered.
“But can you read mine or not? Does it work both ways?” Dulior could barely hold her excitement. She needed to be sure. If she was locked outside his head, and if the same was true for him, then her secrets and desires were hers and hers alone.
“Why?” Rorgon finally turned, an expression of distaste contorting his face. He threw the letters on the desk and took a step. Suddenly he was right beside her, pressing his body against hers. He had always been faster and stronger than her, even after he had turned her.
His hand grabbed her face and twisted it up so she would look at him. The fingers of his other hand combed across her loose curls and yanked her head back, forcing her to bare her throat. She flattened her palms against his chest and tried to push him away.
Rorgon remained unmoved.
