Drowning
Darken sat in a richly upholstered chair before the fire in his study, idly twirling a wine glass.
It was a deep red. A gift from the Margrave of Rothenberg.
Why did everyone assume he liked red wine?
It was sour and heavy on his tongue. Just like the thoughts on his mind.
The Seeker.
Sip.
The Confessor.
Swallow.
The wizard.
Grimace.
He set the glass on the table by his chair. It fell and shattered.
Who had moved his table?
He stared at the spreading red liquid. So like blood.
It set his teeth on edge.
What he wanted was security. Power.
The Seeker's blood spreading on his fine rug.
Instead he had wine.
He called for a servant, his voice louder than necessary.
A small man, an ugly quivering tiny man came through the door, twisting his livery in nervous hands, a guard visible in the open passage behind him.
"Clean that up," Darken barked.
Then little wart scurried to do so, falling all over himself to keep the wine from reaching Lord Rahl's boots.
Darken groped for the wine bottle, holding it up to the light of the fire to watch the play of flames among the ruby sea.
It was empty.
Impossible.
He was never drunk. He never drowned his sorrows. Such behavior was for lesser mortals.
He was always in complete control.
"Bring me my journey book," he carefully annunciated to the servant still down like a dog at his feet.
He kicked the man when he was slow to comply.
The journey book was brought to Darken by Egremont, who stayed firmly out of knife's reach.
Bastard.
Seeker.
Bastard.
"My lord," Egremont said, his tone carefully respectful, "perhaps you would wish for the company of your Mord'Sith tonight. You seem… tense."
"I'm fine, Egremont," Darken paused, a strange catch in his throat. He swallowed convulsively, tongue thick, and continued, "My journey book."
Egremont handed it over and Darken perused the pages, refreshing himself on failure after failure.
His soldiers were fools. He would send them all to work in the mines. Or to be eaten by gars.
Something. It would come to him.
"You may go now, Egremont."
Heavy booted footsteps thumping to the door.
"Egremont."
"My lord?"
"Have a bottle of the white we took from Queen Milena's cellar brought up."
"Perhaps my lord would prefer a cup of the tea imported from the mountains of the east. It is very refreshing and conducive to… relaxation."
Lord Rahl was ominously silent and a chill went down Egremont's spine.
"I will send the wine."
He clicked his heels together in a salute and quit the room, anxious to divert a blood bath.
This was why he told everyone Lord Rahl preferred red wine above all else.
A comely scullery maid brought a new bottle to Lord Rahl along with fresh glasses balanced on a tray.
She set the tray on the table by his elbow, uncorking the wine and pouring it for him.
"That," he bit out, "is red."
She looked confused, then fearful, "Begging my lord's pardon, but I thought red was your favorite."
"I specifically asked for the white."
Her eyes widened, her hands beginning to shake. The wine in the glass vibrated like the sea.
"I'm sorry, Lord Rahl. I wanted to please you."
He reached out, grasping her wrist. She knew better than to scream.
"Shhh," he calmed her, pulling her gently into his lap. The edge of her fear wore away. She was familiar with the drunken gropings of men.
"You will please me very much," he slurred into her ear, his voice a seductive purr even when sodden with liquor.
Darken extended a leg, hitching the maid higher into his lap. He freed a hand to pull his dagger from the top of his boot.
He caught the maid's blood in the remaining empty glass she had brought to him just moments before.
Her body fell gracelessly to the floor. He opened his journey book to pen new orders to his men.
The words would not appear on the page, no matter how many times he scraped them across the paper.
It wasn't until he took a sip from his glass and tasted blood that he realized he had been trying to write with the wine.
He swallowed.