The linen drapes stirred in an evening breeze blown in from the river. A smell of soft lilac filled the room from the garden below. Candles flickered in the movement of air, lifting gossamer strands from her neck as she combed through her tumbled tresses. Her gown was near as white as the drapes with a pale green robe over her shoulders. A soft hum came in measure to the brushing.
She smiled to herself as the paneled door opened and she heard footsteps behind her. The smell of rose oil informed her he was coming from the baths and she grinned, checking a giggle. The smell of horse and armor and rust too often was an announcement of her intendeds arrival. He appeared in the mirror, a playful smile upon his lips already as he bent to kiss her neck, sweeping her hair back. “I stayed away too long,” he murmured against the taste of her skin, warm and hinting of spice. His lips lingered along the nape of her neck, tracing the delicate muscle line toward her jaw.
“For a betrothed, you do manage to find much work elsewhere,” she quipped as she relaxed against his chest. His hands rested on her shoulders as his lips wandered to her cheek. “I should not indulge you so when you are here!” she said firmly but without rancor.
“Mmm, no, you shouldn’t,” he chuckled against her skin as he drew her around and finally pressed lips to hers. Their passions, checked more by distance than virtue, did not slake as they kissed. Hands roamed freely over clothed bodies as he lifted her. She permitted him to lift her, sweeping her legs up with his arm and carrying her to her bed. They did not break their kiss as he laid her upon the damask covers and leaned over her.
She sighed, feeling his weight press upon her. “We have weeks til our ceremony,” she breathed in a voice hitched with rising wants. Her hands found his shoulders, pushing him up. “Restraint, my love,” she said, then felt her throat clench in terror.
The handsome blond face she expected, had just been gazing at in mirror and her own eyes, was distorted, a heavy ride lying over the brows. Skin that should be pale had a dusky hue, and gray eyes were black as deep night. A rolling sound, like muted thunder, issued from the befanged mouth that curled in a mock smile. “The House of Pontiff will vanish with this line!” it growled at her. “And you shall be its cause!”
Mellyora awoke with a scream of terror that ripped through the Guild hall, echoing against the residences within Glen Abbey. Her heart raced and her skin was a clammy dampness.
The maker of the dream reclined as the image fled the sanguine surface of his scrying bowl. “Pity,” he growled, “had she just slept longer…” He rose, muscled legs levering his torso from the settee. “Tomorrow is a new night,” he continued, speaking to shadow as his left the chamber. He did not worry whom she would tell, nor what they would do. This was a beginning and his kind knew how to be patient.
The cries were shortly answered with pounding footsteps as occupants of the Guild Hall rushed to Mellyora’s chambers. First in the door was her serving girl, a child from nearby Rilan village who had come to work in the League’s great halls. “My Lady!” she gasped at the paleness of Mellyora’s face and ran to fetch wine. Her hand covered her mouth as she pressed passed the people filling the corridor coming toward her.
Crispian burst through the door, Tannir only paces behind him. “What happened, Mel?” he snapped in a voice meant to shock and command both. His face was filled with concern, illuminated more as Tannir lit candles about the room.
Mellyora glanced about. This was not her bed chamber at her father’s estate. None of the soft appointments were here. This was her barracks room at the League, functional but hardly opulent. “I must have been dreaming,” she said softly, pulling her bedclothes tight at the throat. “A dream…” her voice trailed off.
Crispian sat at the edge of her bed, offering her the wine that was brought. “What dream or night terror was this?” he asked softly, as she drew her knees to her chest. Her eyes would not light on any one thing, skitting about the chamber even as she took the wine in trembling hand.
“It was a vision, m’lord,” she said quietly sipping the wine. In halting phrases she told him the dream as she recalled it, vivid and clear to the last detail. “And…and then I woke,” she finished, looking about at the shocked faces before her.