A Pledge to Keep

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con
Category: M/M
Fandom: Original Work
Relationship: Prince/His Arranged Marriage Husband
Additional Tags: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Fantasy, Fantasy and Fictional Setting
Racism, domestic abuse, Melodrama, Elf ear kink, Language Barrier,
Blood and Violence
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of An Oath To A Vow
Stats: Published: 2025-10-15 Updated: 2025-12-03 Words: 8,243 Chapters: 3/?
 A Pledge to Keep
by MothTale

Summary

By my oath, my heart is already yours and will remain ever so.

Those words had been such a source of joy. Now, they chilled him.

A pact of misery, impossible to fulfill.

Notes

I'm continuing on the story from the nonconathon treat I wrote. Tags will be updated as I
continue posting. There's no explicit non-con in this chapter, but I figured the warning was
necessary since that's kinda the core of this story.

I don't have an ending in mind yet, which may well trip me up later. I haven't decided if this
will be a complete descent into misery, or bittersweet. Fair warning, I'm a bit of a slow writer
these days but I will do my best and aim for monthly updates, possibly more.

At the moment there's more plot than smut, but I'm sure I will have reasons for the prince to
do terrible things to the protagonist before long.

Anyway, enjoy (hopefully) this short, angsty, self-indulgent intro chapter.

 Chapter 1

To Brelwen, wedded-consort of Marun, Duke of Tellioth, I, Larke Ullahime, wedded to Prince

Riminus of Sarm-Dak, offer greetings.

Your wise advice has been a comfort, and I endeavour to repay your kindness by conducting
myself wholly according to your instruction.

It has not been without difficulty, but I am most fortunate to have a husband who values
honesty in our intimacy. He has no want of my affection, for which I am grateful, and it
appears quiet sufferance will be all that is required of me.

As I write, I am recovering from his attentions upon our wedding night. I am left alone, but
for my servant, Narin, and the occasional visit from the court doctor. I confess I am bored,
but boredom is survivable. I am not sure I dare to raise the matter with my honoured
husband. My servant has been able to procure some small articles for me, including the pen,
ink and parchment I now write on, though there is a limit to what he is able to do without
requiring the attention and approval of my husband. I have been able to make little progress
in learning the language of my new home. Narin is able to communicate with me, but he is
unwilling to teach me, insisting that one of my rank should not learn the Sarmese of servants,
but of the ‘noble ones’. I fear I will have no choice but to request a tutor when I next have the
opportunity to converse with my husband, but I will show all due deference and hope he will
see the good sense of my request.

The land itself is very beautiful. From my window I see mountain peaks, wreathed in drifting
cloud. It has scarcely rained since my arrival, though I am informed that in a few months
there will be a downpour that will last for weeks. The streets of the capital are apparently
equipped with slanted channels, to carry off and store the excess rainwater. I hope I will get
the opportunity to explore more than the few rooms I have so far been allowed access to.
There are gardens here with colours I have never seen before. In the evenings the air is filled
with their perfume.

I must beg a further kindness of you. Enclosed with this letter is another, intended for my
mother. I would be grateful beyond measure if you would see it delivered for me. I am aware
of the great distance between Sarm and northern Sendrahime, and thought it better to entrust
the letter to you. I pray you forgive the imposition.

May Tae, keeper of fates, see to your unending fortune, while Cloona, defender of the just,
shields you from your enemies.

This letter was penned on the 14th of Ti-Va,

in the tenth year of the reign of His Righteouness, King Navos,

in the palace of Otuksarn,

by Larke of Ullahime
Larke lowered the pen onto its holder and breathed a sigh. He moved the inkstone well away
from the parchment and stood up to leave it to dry.

Sitting for the length of time it had taken to finish the letter had been uncomfortable, but
manageable. Two weeks ago, it would have been unthinkable.

Larke went to the small window he had written to Brelwen about. It was the only one which
offered a view beyond the palace and Larke had spent much time gazing through it of late.

It was too small to climb through, and Larke wondered if that was intentional. A bird might
manage it, but certainly not an adult person.

The day was clear, and the mountains looked close enough to touch. His hands flexed at his
side, and he went back to the desk.

Sarm did not use wax to seal letters. Narin had only looked blankly at him when Larke asked
for some. Instead he was presented with a pocket of silk fabric decorated with the same seal
which Riminus had stamped onto Larke’s skin at the wedding ceremony. Even after multiple
washings, Larke could still see the ghost of it on the back of his hand.

“Letter goes inside, Admired Master, and then Narin is to sew up. The thread is very special –
only royal palace is allowed to use such. It cannot be cut and picked out and sewed back up
because is very fragile. So letter is safe from wrong eyes.”

Larke didn’t point out that his recipients would likely be unaware of such a custom, and
would lack the knowledge to inspect the thread to such a degree. Brelwen had told him to
expect his letters to be inspected, and he had written with that in mind. Even in his letter to
his mother, written in her native tongue, he had been careful – though that was more on
account of trying not to upset her rather than any concern over scrutiny. She did not need to
know that he was married to a man who had made him bleed, with no shred of remorse, and
who referred to him as a barbarian and a dog.

Larke folded the letters, slipped them into the silk pocket and handed them to Narin.

“I will sew shut, and I will take to Esteemed Chamberlain. He will see it is delivered to the
Empire.”

“To Tellioth. The house of the Duke.”

“Tellioth. Duke’s house. Yes, Narin remembers.”

“Thank you, Narin.”

The servant nodded and smiled, retiring to his tiny room while he worked. Larke returned to
the window.

It would likely be several weeks before he received a reply from Brelwen, longer still for his
mother. He had been unable to resist asking for news of Gawen.
Writing his name had been a mistake.

Larke remembered sitting in his chamber, composing careful letters. He began sending them
during the long years of Gawen’s training, begun when he was ten and Gawen twelve; thick
sprawling things, packed with whatever Larke had deemed important. The happenings of the
castle and estate, his boyish irritations with tutors, retellings of the stories he had read, often
illustrated with simple sketches. Gawen would respond, rather more concisely, with tales of
his present efforts, of the instructors and his fellow initiates.

It had been in a letter that Larke had first expressed the true depth of his feeling for Gawen.
He remembered spending hours, wasting sheet after sheet of fine parchment as he drafted and
re-drafted the words. No letter had ever caused him such anguish. And the reply, when it
came – scarcely more than a line, the letters steady and well-formed with no hint of doubt.

By my oath, my heart is already yours and will remain ever so.

Those words had been such a source of joy; a blazing flame to warm him until they could
meet again and affirm their devotion.

Now, they chilled him. A pact of misery, impossible to fulfill. He had released Gawen from
all his oaths, but he was not foolish enough to believe that would put an end to the man’s
feelings. After all, Larke had sworn an oath to a new king, a new lord – it bound his actions,
but did not touch his heart.

He should have made Gawen swear to live, to take what happiness was still available to him.
He could only hope his mother would be able to do as she had promised, and keep Gawen
safe.

The door slid open, and Narin padded across the floor. Larke did not look at him, focused on
the open window and the boundless sky beyond.

“But surely I would be allowed. It is only the courtyard. I am not asking to–”

“No, no, no. Much Honoured Excellency said you to remain here until he asks. Narin is must
obey.”

“That can’t be right. You accompany me to the baths, after all, how would this be any
different?”

“That is permitted. This is not. This is your honoured husband’s order. He made much clear
to Narin. Admired Master is to remain in rooms, but for bath or emergency, until Honoured
Excellency asks him by his side.”

“But that is…Surely he did not mean…I am a prisoner, then?”

Narin smiled – that infuriatingly gentle smile, as of a parent tending to the nonsense whims
of a child, which was by now familiar. Larke was startled by the oily, black streak of hate
which cut across his heart at the sight of it.
“If Admired Master suffers so much, Narin can send message to Honoured Excellency and
ask if he might–”

“No!”

“Very well. Narin understands.”

Larke was glad they stood so far apart. Had Narin been any closer, he would have struck him
and, from what he understood of Sarmese culture, the smiling servant would have accepted
such treatment.

“Just…go away, Narin.”

Larke heard the tears in his own voice. They ran easily these days, always just beneath the
surface, pushing up through the cracks like a mountain spring.

“If Admired Master wishes it…”

“I do. Get out.”

Of course, Narin did not exactly leave. He retired to the tiny room adjoining Larke’s, still
within earshot but out of sight, and it was enough. It had to be.

Larke pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he sat, arms hugging his knees
close.

Nowhere in the room quite felt safe, but Larke had found one spot which offered some small
comfort.

Curled up, with the bedframe to his right and a tall wardrobe to his left, he was all but hidden
from the main door to the room.

It was exactly what he used to do as a boy when something had upset him. Find somewhere –
the smaller, darker and quieter the better – secret and hunker down to weather the storm.

It felt childish to do it again, almost shameful – as if he were falling into the role made for
him. A weak, foolish boy; kept cosseted and controlled.

But it was that, or rage. And Larke doubted smashing furniture to pieces, biting and spitting,
would do anything to help his case – to prove he was not a child, not a barbarian.

Hidden, within an illusion of safety, Larke was able to cry without howling. Narin would
chide him, but there was no one to see his red-rimmed eyes, no one to judge the dampened,
tear-stained silk of his sleeves.

It had been almost a month since he had last seen his husband.

He should have been glad. He was, truly. When he thought of the man an icy, scrabbling
panic sunk its claws between his ribs, but the monotony of day after day gnawed at him
constantly.
The spare parchment on his desk was covered, front and back, with drawings. Studies of
furniture, of the view from the window, a hurried sketch of Narin, idle imaginings. There was
no blank space left – Narin had refused to bring Larke more paper without consulting Prince
Riminus first, no matter how much he pleaded.

The more time passed, the more things Larke realised he wanted – and each cursed thing was
a potential weapon. The tutor could be explained in terms of mutual benefit, but paper…It
was such a small thing, but would mean so much. A glaring vulnerability made obvious.
Larke’s happiness was clearly of no concern, no value, so how best could he convince the
man to allow him his requests? If he said no…If this was it…fucked bloody then put away to
rot…time and again…

Unendurable.

It would be…completely…

Hopeless.

“If Admired Master does not eat, then Narin will have to inform to Honoured Excellency…”

“Please to rise. It is nearing midday, Admired Master. Your husband would be much vexed to
know you are still abed.”

“Narin’s heart is to hurt. He is to help, but is not know how. Please, Admired Master, let
Narin send message to Honoured Excellency. He will care to help, to stop Admired Master
from so many tears making his eyes so red. So please, may Narin…No? Of course, is
understood. But if continues, Narin will have no choice.”

Larke broke a bowl. An accident. It slipped from his hand and split into two. Only two blunt
shards.

He was denied even the pleasure of seeing something shatter.

 Chapter 2

Larke opened the door to find a small servant boy with a purple hat decorated with gold
thread. He held himself straight as an arrow, with an expression not unlike a military
commander on the eve of battle. Despite his bearing, his eyes widened slightly when he saw
Larke standing at the threshold.

The door to Narin’s room burst open.

“Ah! Admired Master, it is Narin’s place to answer doors. Please, aside.” The man stiffened
as he caught sight of the purple and gold hat, and executed a small hurried bow. A short
exchange of Sarmese followed. It ended with the boy offering a respectful, inclined head in
Larke’s direction, and stepping back as Narin shut the door.

“His Supreme Excellency, Most Honoured King, has asked of you. Narin must dress you and
then we go. Please be hurry.”

Larke removed the plain tunic he wore, standing ready while Narin darted around the room
and selected a more suitable outfit.

“You are shaking…” Narin murmured, adjusting the sleeves of a brocade jacket.

“It is nothing. I am well.”

Narin said nothing, applying a few finishing touches before ushering him out into the
corridor.

The King’s personal apartments occupied much of the second floor. There were guards with
long-bladed spears by the entrance. Beyond was a throne room, but the king was not there.
Larke was instead led further, beyond another set of doors watched over by a pair of
swordsmen in the distinctive black, scaled armour Larke had seen amongst his escort on his
journey to the capital.

The rooms became smaller, and Larke heard the voices of several children at play. As they
passed through a narrow corridor a door ahead and to the left slid open, and a young girl with
waist-length braids and a storm-coloured gown darted out into their path.

The servant in front of Larke stopped, bending at the waist in instant deference. Larke heard a
rustle of cloth as Narin, behind, did the same. Both servants murmured something – a name,
or a title.

The child stopped, startled, before straightening up in an endearing display of dignity – every
inch a little princess.

Larke bowed, but when he raised his head the girl was scowling.
She said something, tossing her head and disappearing through another door. She shut it
behind her with a loud, dismissive clack.

The servant boy waited for a moment before continuing on.

King Navos looked different without the elaborate jewelled regalia he’d worn for the
wedding ceremony. A simple gold diadem was all that adorned his head as Larke was
ushered in.

The room seemed to be some sort of study, with a large desk of polished wood and an
assortment of shelves laden with scrolls, books and loose scraps of paper. Annotated maps
hung on the walls, showing places Larke could not recognise – at least, not without closer
examination.

Larke recognised Shen Gavok, standing a few steps behind the king.

The servant boy dropped smoothly to his knees, tipping his head forward as he addressed his
king. He waited for Navos to speak before he rose back up and left the room.

Larke was left alone with the two men – Narin had been left behind in an antechamber,
seemingly unfit to travel further into the sanctum of the king’s domain.

He bowed as he had done at the wedding ceremony, holding the pose for a few seconds
before he raised his head.

“I answer your summons, Righteous Liege.”

He willed his voice steady and smooth, looking at the desk rather than the monarch sat
behind it. His hands were hidden in the sleeves of his jacket, where no one, he hoped, could
see them tremble. His ears were flattened against his skull where they could not offend with
their strangeness.

“Please, there is no need for such formality. We are family now. Consider me a brother.”

Larke blinked, daring to raise his head a little. Enough to see the smile on the man’s face. It
did not wholly reach his eyes, strained and tense, but it was otherwise reassuring enough.
“I…Thank you, my liege.”

“Make yourself comfortable, anam-asha. I wish to know how you find this proud country of
ours. I imagine it is much different from your own.”

“Yes, my liege. I am grateful for the fine accommodations which have been given to me.”

“And of my brother? You have not quarrelled? I would not ask, only I understand you have
remained in your rooms much of this last month. I am informed that the marriage was indeed
consummated, but your absence from my brother’s side has been noticed. It is not good that a
young couple should be apart quite so much, particularly so soon after being wed.”
Larke lowered his eyes again, wishing that he might have Brelwen’s advice.

“I…am only doing as I have been bid. Have…Have you not spoken to my husband about
this?”

The words choked. It was, he realised, the first time he had referred to Riminus as such
aloud. His eyes flicked up, and he saw now a deep frown, more natural than the smile by far.
The fingers of one hand rested at his temple, beneath the plain golden band of the diadem, in
readiness to ward off an impending headache.

“My brother is quite adept at avoiding me, when he wishes so, and I prefer not to pry into his
private affairs unless it is unavoidable. It seems we have both been most neglectful in our
obligations towards you, anam-asha, and I shall see it rectified.”

Larke’s nails sank deep into the palms of his hands.

“Your kindness is more than I would dare ask, Gracious King. I thank you for your care.
Only, forgive me this presumption, I bid you be not too harsh with my husband. I know I am
not what he might have wanted in a spouse. I do hope that, despite my detriments, he will
come to care for me in time.”

Gods, but he felt foul. The words were all poison, spilling back down his throat, pouring
between his teeth, forming vapours in the air – infecting them all.

When he looked, he saw a new gentleness in the King’s eyes, the deep lines on his forehead
smoothing just a little.

Larke realised he was blushing, and tried not to think of how he must look. Delicate as a
blossom. Fragile. Sweet.

Navos smiled. “I promise, I will chide him no more than he deserves. Now, I am in the habit
of meeting with my advisors about this hour in the water garden. If you wish, you may
accompany me there. You have not seen it, I believe?”

Larke’s response needed no artifice. His ears sprung out, a smile born of sheer delight shining
beneath them. He stumbled over his thanks, as heartfelt as those of a starving man presented
a most palatable meal.

King Navos laughed; hearty, fond.

“That word, I do not recognise…What does it mean?”

Larke realised he had not spoken in Perusan. Nor Sendrim.

Voloor.

His mother’s tongue. A word he had only heard in the old stories she told and, once, as she
touched his father’s bloodied face after his men carried him home.

Voloor. The deepest gratitude, soul-deep and binding.

And Larke had said it for the privilege of feeling the sun upon his skin.

The scales of the fish glittered in the light. Iridescent, flickering. Larke was sure he would
never have been able to match their colours, no careful mixture of pigments enough to
capture on a canvas.

“They are yash-gora, Admired Master. It is called…jewel fish, I think? They live many
hundred years, even thousand! Ah, you see ghost one there, all in white. She is over seven
hundred years. She was gift to King Maramur, may he rest forever in the high heavens, from
his eldest daughter Harul who after sacrificed herself to make peace between warring house,
may she sleep most gently. When she died, the fish turned white every scale. Before, it was
beautiful blue and gold.”

The white fish drifted through the dark green water. She was large – at least the length of
Larke’s arm. As he watched, her head and back breached the surface of the water and she
splashed. She swam closer to the edge of the wooden platform where Larke sat, submerging
again. Her head rose up again, close enough to touch.

Narin murmured something in Sarmese.

“She is say hello, Admired Master,” he said.

“And how might I say hello back?”

“Just bow. There, see, she swims away.”

Larke looked up from the pool as the white fish disappeared amongst the lillypads. Across
the water, he could see the bench where the king sat discussing matters with his advisors. The
distance was small enough that Larke might have been able to hear them, if not for the
sounds of running water. Besides the fish pond, which formed the centre-piece of the garden,
there were at least a dozen tiny waterfalls dotted amidst the plants and paths. Water tumbled
over artfully arranged rocks, it ran through channels and spilled into and out of decorative
pools before continuing with its journey. Small trees with red and purple leaves provided
patches of shade and colour. A raised wooden path wound its way through the garden; with
bridges, pavilions, viewing platforms and seating.

It was peaceful, yet somehow vibrant.

Larke caught sight of movement to his left. Turning his head he saw a young woman in a
wide-brimmed hat. Her clothes were plain – a pocketed tabard over loose, knee-length
gathered trousers. She bowed deeply, speaking in Sarmese without meeting Larke’s eyes. In
her hand she held a large, round red fruit.

Narin uttered back something sharp, puffing out his chest.

“What did she say?”

“She is low garden servant. I tell her she is much too low to speak to–”
“But what did she say, Narin?”

“Ah, I understand, Admired Master. She is come to feed jewel-fish good fruit. She was ask if
Admired Master would wish to watch, but I will tell her to go away–”

“No, don’t do that. I would like to watch.”

Narin frowned.

“Admired Master, it is a little improper. Not for lesser noble ones, but for you who are
married to Much Honoured Excellency it is not very proper to be seen with low servant,
especially young woman servant.”

Larke snorted.

“My tastes lie elsewhere. Besides, is that not what you are for, Narin? To ensure all virtues
remain intact?”

Narin continued to frown. The young gardener shifted uncertainly, waiting for dismissal.
Fearing punishment.

Larke sighed, getting up and dusting himself off.

“Admired Master, why is to get up, you should–”

“I assume I may watch from over there?” Larke said, pointing to another platform beyond a
large patch of lillypads. “I have no wish to deprive Lady Harul’s jewel-fish of her delicacies.
In my homeland, old age is a time for indulgence, and this servant’s diligence to the comfort
of such ancient creatures would be to her credit. She deserves no censure for that.”

He did not wait for a response, listening as Narin spluttered and hoping that, torn between
following his master and further haranguing the unfortunate servant, the man would choose
the former.
Sure enough, Larke heard his footsteps thudding against the planks of the walkway.

The gardener knelt at the edge of the platform. Holding the fruit, she took a knife from one of
her pockets and began to carve the fruit into segments.

The water before her rippled, enough that the waterlillies in front of Larke began to sway. He
saw hints of fins, splashes of bright colour. The woman smiled as she began to cast the pieces
of fruit into the water. Several of the fish pushed their heads out of the water, as the white one
had done to Larke, and to these she handed morsels, letting them rub against her palm. Larke
had never considered fish as being capable of affection, and yet it seemed to be so.

He looked towards the alcove where the king sat. The advisors were almost all gone, but
Larke saw an all-too-familiar figure stood by in close discussion.

It was instinctive. He felt it before even before the name entered his head.
Fear – gasping, trembling. He could not look away.

Riminus’s back was to him. Larke was not discovered – not quite yet – there was still time to
slip away, to find some shaded corner out of sight.

It was tempting.

But it would not be helpful.

Larke could almost hear Brelwen’s voice as he sought to control the base urge for flight.

He had presented himself to the king as a sweet, passive creature, seeking only to do his duty
towards his husband. Such a creature would not run away and hide when said husband had at
last appeared, after so many weeks.

But nor would such a creature approach. Too meek, too shy for such forwardness.

He could remain where he was, overlooking the pond, until told otherwise.

Snatches of voices rose above the sounds of the garden. Larke kept the two figures in his
periphery, but his attention was largely on the pond.

The gardner had finished her task and the fish were once again scattered, providing
distracting bursts of colour as they curved through the water.

Narin did not offer to translate the loudest snippets of conversation – Larke imagined
servants eavesdropping was one of the many things punished harshly in Sarm – and Larke
did not ask him to. The mask he wore would feel no curiosity for things not meant for his
ears.

The white fish circled glided through the water, less than a metre from the platform. Larke
would have to ask Narin for more details about the ill-fated Harul and why she had needed to
die. He did not imagine he would understand it – full of context he could only guess at.

When he next wrote to his mother he would have to ask how she had borne it – being cut off
from all that was familiar. She had had his father to guide her. A man who loved her. A man
who had taken great pains to present her, from time to time, with artefacts from her
homeland. Among the most treasured of these was a book of stories, from which she had
often read to Larke when he was small. She had taught him from its pages how to read and
write in the Dirindi fashion, and its illustrations had served as early inspiration.

A flurry of movement. The figures at the bench separated and Larke’s breath caught in his
throat as one came closer.

“It would seem you have entirely bewitched my brother, dear one.”

Amusement, belying a sharp edge.

Larke turned his head towards Riminus, keeping his eyes lowered against the glare of the
sun.

“Stand up. You have recovered, I take it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. My brother, in his most inestimable wisdom, has decreed you should not leave my
side for the foreseeable future. It is apparently not enough that we are already bound by law.”

Fingers and thumb clasped Larke’s chin.

“Such soft skin. You would make such a convincing girl. Just another kurzpan mockery.”

He let go.

“You may dismiss your servant for now. After all, you will be under my sight.”

“Yes, my lord.”
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

So it seems my assumption that I would be able to manage weekly updates was, in a

word, stupid. I'm going to refrain from making guesses on when the next chapter will be
finished, as I am quite a slow writer these days.

Also, writing interactions from the point of view of a character who does not speak the
language is kinda tedious I've found, but I like the isolating effect of Larke being unable
to communicate with most of the people around him so I guess I'll just suffer. XD

“I suggested to my brother, that if it was the…validity of our union that was in question, then
I might solve the issue by fucking you in front of the entire court…”

Larke’s back pressed against the wooden railing as Riminus moved closer.

“...but he dismissed such an idea. Too vulgar. As if the sight of me – me! – fawning over
some base-blooded savage is not already vulgarity at its height.”

He trapped Larke between his arms. His voice was low; dark as pitch. From a distance, it
might appear as though they were sharing an intimate moment; a pair of lovers, murmuring
sweetly to one another. Only if they stepped closer would they see the prince’s whitened
knuckles as he gripped the railings, the rigidity of his posture, or the way Larke trembled,
pressed as far back as he could manage.

“Stay still.”

A hand came up, holding Larke’s shoulder as Riminus leaned down. Open-mouthed, he
sucked, to and passed the point of pain, against Larke’s neck. Once, twice, three times more,
scattering plum-red bruises over his throat and collarbone.

“There. As good a brand as any.”

He prodded the marks, rubbing them with his thumb.

Larke could not suppress a shudder.

Riminus stopped. He huffed out a breath; a strange, unhappy smile twisting his lips.

“Well, if my brother insists I should show you off, then that is what I’ll do.”

#
The main gardens of Otuksarn were every bit as glorious as Larke’s brief glimpses had led
him to believe. Where the water garden had been peaceful and balanced, here all was
clamour. Flowers, large and small, burst forth from greenery so lush and vibrant it was almost
obscene. Every shape, every colour – whichever way Larke looked there was something he
had never seen before.

It was enough to make him forget, as much as he was able, the man at his side.

“You gawk like a peasant.”

At least until he spoke, of course.

It was hot beneath the full sun, without either water or shade to soften its attentions. Larke
soon felt sweat gathering at the back of his neck. The discomfort was minimal – almost
beneath consideration as Larke tried to commit each fragile detail to memory. If Riminus’s
mood should sour, and Larke found himself shut away again, he would need some place safe,
unweighted by painful associations, for him to retreat to in his mind. The colourful,
sprawling, almost unnatural wonder of the main gardens seemed the ideal sort of place –
assuming that whatever activity Riminus had planned did not entirely ruin it.

A large butterfly, in richest red, landed on a leaf beside Larke’s head. He looked into the deep
bronze eyes patterned on each of its wings as it spread them – once, twice – beating like a
heart before it took off again.

The pavilion emerged as if by some fey magic. On either side of the path the plants had
gotten taller, flourishing on trellises which were all but invisible behind their ruddy growth. A
wall of sweet-smelling amber blossoms gave way to a wooden arch, and beyond it sat a
raised platform with a domed roof supported by a dozen narrow, dark wood columns. The
sides were left open – nothing to disrupt the occupants’ view of the flowers which crowded
every inch of the surrounding trellises. They encircled the pavilion, creating a pretty, petalled
cage. Insects hummed in the air, uninterested in anything but the processes of pollination and
predation.

Larke followed his husband as they mounted the steps, copied him as the prince removed his
shoes and continued on in his thick linen socks.

In the centre of the pavilion was a small table, and around it four noblemen. Their attention
seemed absorbed by a chequered board, of black and green squares. They sat on cushions,
and one – a white-haired man in a dark, broad-sleeved jacket – had his fingers placed upon a
little carved figurine, as if poised to move it but still considering exactly where.

Riminus uttered a greeting.

All heads turned, and Larke saw that the group was quite a mix of ages. The two players
looked to be the oldest – Larke’s estimate put the white-haired man somewhere in his late
fifties, while his opponent was older still. The two observers seemed of similar age to
Riminus. Both had neat, well-kept beards, though one had what seemed to be a scar upon his
cheek which left a pale, hairless line down to his jaw. All but the eldest began to rise to their
feet – to bow, Larke expected, or perform some other gesture of obeisance. It seemed, though
he no longer had claims to the crown, Riminus was still to be given the respect due to a
prince.

Riminus spoke, waving his hand, and the men at once relaxed. There were smiles and
greetings which seemed both polite and warm. Riminus and Larke were beckoned over, a
servant laid out more cushions and the two observers removed themselves both to the same
side of the table in order to give Riminus and Larke space.

Larke settled himself at his husband’s side, with the elderly man to his right. Across the table,
he realised that the two younger men had no doubt seen the marks dappling his neck. Their
tones turned jovial and knowing, and even the elderly man laughed. Riminus made some
reply, provoking more laughter from the grinning pair across the table. Larke felt heat rising
in his face, lowering his eyes. There were a few more ribald comments and then Larke
flinched as a touch came to the tip of his right ear.

“Let him,” Riminus said, and Larke obeyed.

He resisted the urge to flick his ear out of the old man’s grip. To his credit, he was gentle at
least, handling Larke’s ear as if it were a strange, small bird which might be crushed to death
in a single thoughtless move.

He asked a question, in Sarmese, and Riminus answered. The next thing Larke knew, he was
shivering as the old man rubbed down from the tip, following the helix. He was unprepared,
managing only just to quash the startled noise before it left his mouth, helpless against the
unwanted, but very pleasant, sensation.

The old man continued to speak, even as Larke bit back whimpers. He recognised one word
amidst dozens – khanyin. The savage race from the jungles east which Riminus had spoken
of with such disdain.

Riminus cut the man off with the barest hint of edge. A brief back-and-forth and then he was
speaking in Perusan, directed at Larke.

“The name of your people, what was it? Speak.”

Larke breathed out through his nose before he answered.

“You mean my…ah…Dirindel, my lord. Please, might you ask him to…”

The prince had already turned away, returning to conversation.

Through a teary haze Larke looked towards the old man, hoping perhaps that he simply had
not noticed Larke’s distress.

But no, he had known exactly what he was doing – one look at the tongue peeking out
between his papery lips, at the rancid glimmer in his eyes as he met Larke’s, told him that.
Someone cleared their throat, and Larke glanced towards the old man’s opponent. He
gestured to the board, his piece now placed, and the teasing touch finally ceased.

The old man chuckled, both hands returning to the board.

He said something more to Riminus, before returning his attention to the game.

In any case, Larke flattened his ears against his skull and moved, as subtly as he was able,
closer to his husband. He did not even flinch when Riminus’s hand rubbed over his thigh.
Warning, or reassurance – he did not care.

Larke gave up trying to learn the rules of the game. Pieces were removed and replaced
according to no pattern he could discern. Who was winning, or losing, was all similarly
opaque, and so Larke turned his attention back to the flowers.

There was a subtle gradient to the colours – neat enough that he almost suspected that the
petals were dyed. The darkest shades clustered at the bottom, growing paler at every height
until the uppermost blooms were almost white. How much knowledge, how much energy,
must have gone into producing so many variants, and how much planning to arrange them in
such a way. Should a flower fail to blossom in the correct shade, he imagined it was swiftly
removed – cut out and discarded so as not to spoil the effect for noble eyes. It was a
melancholy kind of thought, and Larke was sure that, should he ever manage to paint the
scene, he would include a handful of rebellious flowers scattered throughout.

The thought of painting made his fingers flex, his thumb rubbing at the spots where his
calluses had been. There was no trace of any of them, his skin softer than it had been in years.
His rationed attempts with the pen and paper he had been given for his letter-writing had not
been enough to keep them. Even the largest and most well-worn-in, on the side of his middle
finger where he most often held his brush, had deserted him.

A burst of chatter, and the game came to an end. The old man wagged a finger at his
opponent, shaking his head with a smile. The younger man wore a similar expression, though
perhaps a shade more satisfied – had he been the victor?

Either way, the old man gestured towards the line of waiting servants, attentive and silent,
and at once one sprang forward to assist him upright. A small ritual of farewells followed, for
the man seemed prepared to take his leave. Larke did not wish to seem impolite by avoiding
his gaze, and so when the old man glanced his way Larke responded with an inoffensive,
sweet, little smile. As if all was well, and Larke lacked both the brains and the spirit to bear a
grudge for the uninvited touch.

Apparently, it worked. The old man made a delighted sound, leaning forward to murmur
something to Riminus. The reply from Larke’s husband sounded somewhat terse, at least to
his ears, but the old man only laughed. He departed, with Larke still none the wiser as to his
name, or his position at court, knowing only that he very much hoped not to see him again.

#
With one of their number gone, the discussion apparently turned to who would play the next
game. A brief discussion was followed by a rearrangement of seating. Riminus moved from
Larke’s left, to his right, poised to begin the next game. Likewise, the white-haired man
swapped seats with one of the two younger men – the man with the scar – allowing him to
serve as the prince’s opponent.

There was a minute or two of idle banter as the pieces were set up afresh. Larke watched
them both. That they knew each other was obvious – it was to be expected that Riminus
would know and be known by all the denizens of the court – but there was something deeper
that suggested a more intimate connection.

They answered each other quickly, not only with words but through gesture and expression.
Riminus crooked an eyebrow at a comment, and the other man laughed and held up his hands
– as if in surrender or apology.

The game began, and once again Larke could make neither head nor tail of it. He could not
simply detach himself, as he had before, when his husband – the man who held near total
control over his fate – was involved. His general assessment of Riminus indicated that he
would be a poor loser, and so Larke hoped he would win. Of course, there was nothing Larke
could do to influence the outcome of the game, but it was quickly becoming instinct that
when Riminus acted, Larke must watch.

Which was exactly what he did, until the sound of distant voices distracted both him, and
others at the table.

The white-haired man sighed, while the younger man at his side looked over in the direction
of the sound.

Within a few seconds, a flurry of lace and bright silks appeared from behind the trellis as a
trio of noblewomen, and their attendants, emerged. The sun glinted off their jewellery –
hairpins with dangling clusters of beads which swung with each step, and delicate webs of
gold chain which clung to the backs of their hands like gloves. They paused and
acknowledged the men with a moderate bow, which was returned with varying depth by those
around the table. Riminus hardly moved his head, and no one stood up as they had at his
arrival.

The women gathered at the steps, removing their embroidered slippers. Their attendants
moved ahead, opening a concealed hatch in the floor of the pavilion, and setting up a second
seating area on the far side of the space.

Riminus sighed, looking up from the board, and seemed to ask something of the others. The
young man opposite Larke grimaced slightly and began to speak in the tone of an apology. As
he did so, he could not seem to resist looking over his shoulder as the women took their seats.
When he turned back around there was a faint blush, and a thoroughly besotted expression
which was all too recognisable.

Riminus shook his head, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder and leaning in as if to offer
some grave advice. The white-haired man nodded, adding a few words of his own.
The prince smirked, and made a gesture of dismissal. With no further encouragement, the
young man was off, insinuating his way amidst the newcomers, and to the side of a particular
young lady in green, with honey-brown eyes and dimples.

As Larke watched, he caught sight of a woman staring back at him. She did not appear
embarrassed to be spotted, holding his gaze with the faint hint of a smile. Her shoulders were
bare, a stole of pale purple draped around her arms and fastened at her chest with a pearl
brooch. More pearls hung from her ears and from the chain which was woven into her hair,
hanging above her brow. Larke believed he had seen her before, at the wedding, but hers had
been just one of many, many new faces, on a day which he would much rather forget.

Her eyes flicked to the side, falling on the prince and the faint smile widened at its edges.
Larke noticed Riminus’s hand on the table clenching, his knuckles turning pale.

The scarred man murmured something but again Riminus made a gesture of dismissal.

Larke lowered his gaze to the board, uneasy, as the game began again.

Scanning the board with a sigh, Riminus straightened up and plucked the tall tower from its
square. He handed it to the scarred man, who accepted with a polite smile.

It seemed the prince had lost.

“We’re leaving.”

Larke nodded, rising to his feet to follow at his husband’s heel.

He did not go to the steps, as Larke had expected, but turned towards the three women and
their hanger-on. As they stepped closer Riminus grasped Larke’s hand, holding it up like it
was something infinitely precious.

He spoke to the women, inclining his head respectfully to them each in turn.

Larke copied the gesture. He avoided their eyes, especially the woman with the purple stole.

Riminus addressed her directly. Something in his voice made the hair on the back of Larke’s
neck stand up. There were layers there – insinuations, false gentleness.

The woman replied, crisp and even. When Larke glanced up he saw no sign of fear, only a
coolness masked by that same faint smile.

She looked at Lake before he could lower his gaze once more, and for a moment it seemed as
if she might speak. She apparently thought better of it, and Riminus drew Larke away.

He continued to hold Larke’s hand even once they were out of sight of the pavilion.

It felt very much like a leash.

 #

“You made quite an impression on Arman,” Riminus said, dipping a piece of thin, golden
bread into an aromatic sauce.

They sat on a balcony, a small luncheon spread arranged on a table in front of them.

“I’m sorry, who is–”

“The old bore who you allowed to fondle you.”

“I…I thought you gave him permission, my lord.”

“Indeed I did, but you might have protested. It is concerning to me that such valuable
property should be so uncaring of itself.”

Larke blinked, looking out at the mountains. He picked up his cup, warm with some
sweetened beverage he did not know the name of, simply so as to have something to do with
his hands that did not involve clenching them with rage.

“I apologise for my behaviour, my lord. I shall be more mindful of my position in future.

Perhaps, if I were able to speak to–”

“Even a dog has ways of communicating it does not wish to be touched.”

The prince tore off a mouthful of bread.

“Are you proposing that I should bite members of the court?”

Riminus coughed, pounding a fist against his chest a few times. “Well, it certainly seems you
have some fangs yet hidden away.”

“I do not understand your meaning, my lord.”

“It matters not. Your fangs, and all the rest, are mine. Remember that.”

Larke wanted to ask if that meant he had leave to use his ‘fangs’ against Arman the next they
met, but he suspected he had already pushed too far beyond the bounds of his mask.

“I will not forget, my lord.”

“Hmm. Even the most obedient creature needs a firm reminder of their place from time to
time.”

There was a hand in Larke’s hair, tangled in the strands over the back of his neck. The weight
of it a potent promise.

“My place is beneath you, my lord. Were we not wed, I would be unfit to even look upon
your excellency. I am nothing more than a barbarian half-breed, from a weak, vassal state. I
remember your words, my lord.”
The hand released.

“Good. You will have a chance to prove that sincerity to me tonight.”

Larke nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. His palms felt damp pressed against the
lukewarm ceramic cup.

The sun was still high in the sky, but nightfall would come no matter – whether he wished it
to or not.

Larke sat and watched as the prince oversaw the training of the royal guard. The courtyard
was shielded from the worst of the afternoon sun, but the men still sweat beneath their
armour, repeating form after form at the behest of their instructor.

There were about forty of them in total, split into groups across the yard. Most practiced with
swords, though some wielded polearms and a single pair, unhindered by the black scaled
armour worn by their fellows, sparred with small, claw-shaped blades in each hand.

The instructor, with Riminus at his side, strode amongst them all, either shouting at or
striking those who made errors. He carried a short stick for the purpose, and the blows he
struck resounded across the courtyard so sharply that Larke could almost feel the sting
himself. Not one of the men cried out, even under repeated blows. They simply carried on,
rehearsing the same movements over and over with nothing but the increasing sweat on their
brows to show their exertion.

At a signal from the instructor they would switch to another pattern, so fluidly that it was as
though they moved with but a single mind between them.

Riminus watched on; impassive, regal – as if perfection were only his natural right,
undeserving of any praise.

There was a thud against the dirt as one of the sparring pair was brought down by his
opponent, a blade at his throat. One of his knives, knocked from his hand as he fell, skidded
along the ground, landing a few paces from Larke’s feet.

When his opponent let him up, he looked around for the missing weapon and Larke saw the
colour leave his face as he spotted it. He stared at the blade for several moments – long
enough that Larke began to consider rising and returning it. It would no doubt be against
etiquette, but a breach of some kind had already occurred and Larke was a foreigner who
could not be expected to know every fine point.

He stood up at the same moment the man sunk to his knees with his forehead pressed to the
dirt, and Larke heard his husband’s voice cut through the air.

In an instant the sound of practice ceased and Larke began to feel the blood pulse behind his
eyes – a tiny, trembling premonition all in red.
The prince was the very image of fury, and, this time, it was not at all directed at Larke but at
the kneeling man.

The commander was on the prince’s heels, and when he saw the single blade lying in the dirt,
its tip pointing at Larke, he grimaced. The expression lasted only a moment, before he said
something to the prince and bowed his head.

Riminus addressed the man on the ground – a question, it must have been, for he answered
without raising his face from the dirt.

The prince stepped back, gesturing to the stray knife and speaking a single word.

The man on the ground stood up, not lifting his eyes from the ground as he approached the
spot where the knife had fallen. He sank to his knees again, wrapping his fingers around the
hilt with only the slightest hesitation.

“No–”

He slit his own throat.

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