Master of Craving by Karin Tabke

against his chest, had begun to warm again. In quick fashion, they tended their wounds and were ahorse before the blush of the sun peeked over the eastern forest.
    Much later, as the sun made its final descent into the Black Mountains, they broke through a thicket that in actuality was a hidden passageway to a well-marked trail. The burden in his arms had long since given him the chore of keeping her a-saddle. He admitted he did not mind so much. But his concern grew as the day waxed. Her teeth began to chatter as they moved along the trail, but her body burned once more with fever. He pushed the collar of the tunic down to reveal the sword wound. He frowned. Though it was swollen and red around the threads, there was no trace of poison. He slid his hand up the slender column of her throat, liking the way it felt against his callused hands. If the wound did not fester, why then the fever? Was there something more wrong?
    His concern rose. He told himself it was because if she died she was useless to him, and he had a great use for her. But … he gazed down at her face. She was comely, her long black lashes spiked out across the golden skin that had lost its luster. Her chest rose and fell almost in cadence with Apollo’s steps. His arm tightened around her waist, and he admitted he wanted her to live, for if she died the earth would be a little less bright.
He snapped his head back at such a ridiculous notion. Bah! Women were useful for but two things, sport and bearing sons. Nothing more.
    Apollo threw his head and neighed as they broke through another copse of wood and his pace quickened. Stefan grunted as the small lodge came into view. He reined the horse to a stop just before they broke clear and exposed themselves to anyone abiding within. For long minutes, he sat astride and listened. Only the sounds of the forest spoke. No wisps of smoke from the hearth, no sound of conversation or laughter. The windows were shuttered tight, and no hounds bayed at the intrusion.
“Allez,” he softly commanded. Apollo moved forward.
    Cagily, always on guard, Stefan’s gaze crisscrossed the small estate grounds. It was as he remembered it when he and several Blood Swords spent a night here. He knew the lord to whom it belonged and knew he had fought against him at Hereford. He doubted that, had he survived, he would return so soon to the hunting lodge. Indeed, he was most likely scourging the northern part of Herefordshire with countless other defiant Saxons.
    Behind the low structure was a small stable, and beyond a thick forest. Stefan halted the black at the door to the back of the structure near the cookhouse and the well. Cool water against his parched throat was tempting, but first he wanted to get the ill princess to a bed. He dismounted, bringing her with him. She struggled for a moment in her delirium, but that was all. With no other option, he slung her over his shoulder and groaned at the added pressure on his leg. He moved to the strapped door and pushed hard against it, expecting resistance.
The door easily opened. Cautiously he made his way in and immediately stopped.
    The great room, though empty and covered with a thin layer of dust, looked as if the habitants had hastily departed. Goblets and moldy trenchers of food sat upon the trestle table. Flies swarmed the area, the stench most odious.
    Arian moaned, stirring in his arms. He turned left to the only private chamber in the structure. He pushed open the door with an elbow, glad to see it free of flies. The bed was unmade but he doubted she would mind. Carefully he laid her upon the rumpled linens, then set about opening the high shutters to give the room air.
    He moved slowly from the small chamber into the large gathering room and proceeded to fling open the shutters there to clear the odor. Then he set about removing the rancid food from the room. Mayhap when Edric sent out the call to arms against Normandy earlier in the month, Lord Alefric, whose holding this