Free Shadowheart by Laura Kinsale

into his belly-plate. “Stand aside!” she declared, her voice ringing off the rough walls.
    Elayne stood silently, watching. The understanding slowly bore in upon her that they were made prisoners.
    “Remove the weapon, varlet,” Lady Beatrice ordered, flipping her famous reed cane under the man’s helmeted chin, pushing his head up and back. Elayne well knew that murderous tone of voice: it had reduced dukes and archbishops to quailing pageboys.
    But the guard stood his ground. He merely looked over his nose at the captain, who laughed and shook his head.
    Lady Beatrice’s translucent skin flushed with rage. She whirled about quickly, belying her fragile figure. She was three hands-breadth smaller than Amposta, and had not a single means to enforce her command as a countess here in this savage place, but her lip curled and her back arched as she spat, “You insolent harlot!” Her cane sliced the air, a supple snap of her wrist. The captain had not the reflexes of Lady Beatrice’s servants, or perchance he had not thought she would dare—his hand came up too late and the blow caught him smartly on the ear, a resounding smack that sent him recoiling, his shoulder colliding with the stone wall as he bent over himself.
    “I do not suffer fools,” Lady Beatrice said calmly.
    The captain straightened, sucking air between his teeth. For an instant, Elayne thought that he would leap at Lady Beatrice like a wild animal. The countess had lowered the cane, but she held it lightly, drawing a circle with the tip on the floor.
    “My dear lady—has this fellow been disrespectful?”
    The quiet voice came unexpectedly, a shock in the small tower room. Elayne saw the captain’s face change—beneath the vivid red mark across his cheek, his skin drained stark white.
    She turned about. There had been only the four of them present. Now, though the guard beside the door had never moved, there was a fifth.
    He stood tall and still, watching them—arriving from nowhere, as if he had created himself out of the ether. Jet-dyed folds of silk fell from his shoulders to the floor: an iridescent cape of black. Beneath it he wore silver, a tunic fitted perfectly to his body. His hair too was black; the color of fathomless night, long and tied back at the nape of his neck. He was like to a statue of pure metal, something— some
thing,
inhuman—elegant and fantastic. Elayne was not even certain for a moment if he were real or a marble figure come to sudden life, but dark as sin, as gorgeous and corrupt as Lucifer himself.
    For he was corrupt—and the master of this place—no one need bow to make that evident, although both the captain and the guard fell to their knees with haste. Elayne dipped into a reverence, keeping her head lowered, though she watched him from under her lashes. She could not tear her eyes away. Even Lady Beatrice leaned upon her cane and made a brief courtesy.
    He smiled. “My lady, you must not bow to me. I do not require it.” Though his words were deferential, though he smiled, it seemed less a courtesy than a mandate. “You have been served ill, I fear, to be asked to climb so far. My regrets, Countess. You may beat the man senseless if you like.”
    “And who might you be?” Lady Beatrice demanded— with considerable audacity, Elayne thought.
    “Alas, I have no noble titles, my lady. They call me only Raven, after the name of this island—Il Corvo.”
    He might have no title, but he carried himself as if he were a prince. His cloak sighed and stirred like something living, light woven into black.
    “Humph,” Lady Beatrice said. “A graceless cur, I think, if it be your order that I wait upon you. I am the Countess of Ludford, on Christian pilgrimage, fellow!”
    He studied her, and then his glance drifted to Elayne. She wanted very badly to lower her face, but it was as if a viper had her for its mark, his black eyes glittering with that subtle smile. She did not dare to look away.
    “By hap you will muster the patience to enjoy my