Master of Craving by Karin Tabke Page A

was, and his men had hastened to their master’s bidding.
    Though it had been only weeks, there was a thin film of undisturbed dust everywhere, the only marks in the dust the small footprints of rats. There was a small cauldron hanging from a swing bar in the large hearth, dried foodstuff hardened at the bottom. Outside, he inspected the small cookhouse to find it sufficiently stocked with utensils and crockery; in the small secured larder were seasonings, a barrel of turnips and some other rotten vegetables, and an untapped casket of what he guessed was wine.
    In the stable, he found several bags of oats that the forest creatures had yet to devour, and a good many tools in one of the stalls. So provisioned, Stefan had no reservations staying here. As much as he did not want to lie low in one place, for in doing so he presented a greater chance of discovery, and it would be that much longer for his brothers’ release, he could not deny that his leg needed the rest and the princess needed to get stronger. Dead, she was useless to him.
    He turned the black loose in the small paddock and filled the manger with oats and hay. He set several snares along the forest edge, wanting meat for his meal, not boiled turnips. As he limped back to the lodge, he nodded to himself, satisfied for the moment. But as soon as he was able, he would take flight south to Draceadon, where he would be welcomed and not condemned for kidnapping a princess.
    He scoffed. Indeed, he would be hailed a hero. But to be a hero he must first see to his hostage’s health. Stopping at the well, he pulled up a full bucket of cool water. Before he entered the chamber, he lit several tapers in the great room and brought one with him into the chamber, where he lit several more. As he lit the last one, the princess softly moaned and writhed upon the sheets. Setting the taper down on a small table near the bed and the bucket down on the floor, Stefan felt her brow. It burned. He dug through the drawers in the corner and found several drying linens. He ripped two of them in half and submerged them in the cool water.
    Deftly he stripped the dirty tunic from her body and inspected the wound on her breast. It swelled but not overly so. As he had done for himself when he was feverish, Stefan pressed the cool cloths to her hot skin and repeated as they warmed. She fought against him, mumbling incoherent words in Welsh.
    Much later, when her soft moans subsided and her body quieted, Stefan left fresh damp linens upon her naked body. He checked the snares and smiled when he spied a grouse fluttering in one of them. Snapping its neck, he pulled it from the snare and reset it. In the kitchen he dressed the bird, set a cauldron of water to boil, then refilled the bucket from the well. The dirt and grime of the day in the saddle itched his skin. Since his time in the Saracen prison, bound and gagged, lying for days, sometimes weeks, in his own urine and feces, he had an aversion to dirt and grime on his body. He was an aesthete in his daily bathing.
    As he thought of that unholy place and the terrible torture he and his brothers had endured, his frustration mounted. They had survived the beatings, the whip, the breaking of their bones, starvation, and the final act, the seared imprint of their own swords burned into their bare chests. The bond they forged in that cesspool was unbreakable, and as he thought of what his brothers might now be suffering at the hands of the Welsh king, it served to renew his vow to see them freed at any cost, even his own life!
    He swiped his hand across his face. He could not set the wheels of his plan into motion until the princess was able to ride. He teetered on whether to take her as she was and pray she endured the rest of the journey to Draceadon, or take the more prudent route of giving her time to heal. For each moment they stayed here, ’twas another agonizing moment of torture for his brothers.
    Irritated, he bathed, then tended his