Sunday's Child(30)
Castil began to pace, the brush of her gown against the floor sounded loud in the vault. “I confessed to you my indiscretion at the temple. I did our friendship a disservice. But this is worse, far worse.” She faced the statue again. “I think of him constantly, look forward to his company when he joins me in the library. He’s a hard man, Kareena, but kind beneath that cold exterior. I’ve seen him with Joris, and he’s a proud, loving father.”
The scent of sea rose blossom teased her nostrils once more. “I will miss you when I return to Caskadan, but it’s been hard to resist his allure, and I long for the peace of my dull existence at home. You’re gone, and Joris is in good hands. I’m not needed here.”
Silence gathered around her and Castil swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. “I am so sorry, Kareena. I haven’t been much of a friend to you lately, dear one. He was yours.” She turned away from the effigy, her steps dragging as she made her way to the stairs, so lost within her thoughts that she didn’t hear the otherworldly whisper behind her.
“And now he is yours, my dearest friend.”
Castil returned to the fortress’s upper levels, both relieved and troubled by her confession. It felt right to say aloud what had weighed heavily in her thoughts—an acknowledgement of her feelings for Doranis. Such feelings changed little. Not long from now she would board a trading vessel bound for Caskadan, and forget her time here with the pale magus king.
The corridors leading to her room were almost temperate compared to the temperatures of the vault. Her cheeks were numb with cold, and she hurried to her chambers, eager to change into heavier clothing and linger by a roaring fire. She passed one of the many closed doors lining the cloister and paused at the sound of familiar voices and the ring of metal on metal.
“Come, old man. I could match you in my sleep.” Doranis’s deep tones reverberated through the wood, causing Castil’s hands to curl in reaction. Again the sound of steel striking steel echoed, and she could picture the scene, having once stumbled upon it when she first arrived in Helenrisia.
The king engaged in swordplay with his weapons master. Her mouth had fallen open the first time she witnessed Doranis sparring with Etane. Both were stripped to the waist, skin glistening with sweat as they circled each other like wary cats, the curving blades of their swords flashing in the torchlight as they came together in a mock dance of death.
Castil had paid no attention to Etane, her eyes riveted to the arresting sight of a shirtless Doranis. Though tall and slim, he was a study in hard muscle and sinew, his chest and abdomen flexing as he dodged the swinging arc of his opponent’s blade or attacked with his own. Silvery lines of perspiration streamed off his skin, and his white hair lay tangled on his shoulders.
She knew if she opened the door this time, a similar sight would again greet her, and Doranis would smile in that smug way when he caught her ogling him. An abrupt hiss of pain, followed by Etane’s gloating response of, “Old man, am I?,” made her lips twitch in amusement, and she continued on her way.
Her maid awaited her, clucking her disapproval as she helped Castil remove her thin cloak and dress. “Down in the vaults again, I see. If you insist on lingering there, you should at least dress for it.”
Castil chuckled at the admonishment. “I didn’t think I would be so long.”
The maid, a young girl named Thesla, tossed her dress in a basket for laundering. “That is the coldest place within the fortress. You would be warmer standing out in the courtyard in your shift.” She stripped Castil down to a thin chemise and handed her a fur pelt to wrap around herself. Castil huddled within it, standing as close to the hearth fire as was safe to stay warm.
A mischievous glitter entered Thesla’s eyes. “Do you know the way to the mineral baths?”
She did. Numerous natural hot springs dotted the landscape, most of them dangerous because of the boiling temperatures of the water. There were a few, however, that were no hotter than bath water. Two lay just outside the fortress and the Helenese were fond of frolicking in them on days when the weather was clear. This wasn’t one of those days. “That holds no temptation for me today, Thesla. The wind outside would freeze armor.”
The maid shook her head. “No, not the common baths.” She raised the lid of the chest at the end of Castil’s bed to pull out a thick cloth and a heavy frock trimmed in fur. “There’s a small spring here, in the depths of the fortress, like the vaults. But it’s warmer there and reserved for the royal family.”
The idea of relaxing in a pool of heated water not exposed to the outside elements had its appeal, especially now as she continued to shiver beneath the fur pelt. Still, Thesla said it belonged to the royal family, and she was not one of its members.
“I think not. I don’t wish to cause offense by intruding where I don’t belong.” She gestured for the frock. “It would be best if I just dressed.”
Thesla held the garment out of her reach. “You’re a guest of the king, madam. The springs are open to you.” Her voice turned coaxing. “Try them. You’ve been here two months now and never experienced the baths. Trust me. It’s something not to be missed.”
A little more cajoling from the maid and Castil soon found herself back out in the corridors, her dry cloth and frock in hand. Following Thesla’s directions, she found the chamber housing the spring.