The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

well she expected to feel every emotion they felt as soon as they did. Now they were closed off, consulting each other over the top of her head.
    They had been on the road for weeks. Every meal, bed, and thought had been shared equally. They had no secrets from each other. Except this.
    “I can’t let them see me! And Jaylor doesn’t have a staff to grant us invisibility.” This time she stepped away from them both, backward, the way they had come.
    “Brevelan, my sweet, no one who knows you could believe you killed that man,” Jaylor reassured her. “Even Krej didn’t really believe it when he taunted you in Shayla’s cave. He was only trying to feed your fearful memories to negate your magic.” He reached for her hand.
    She stood firm. “But I did kill him.” She lifted her face to the rain. The water couldn’t wash away her memories of that awful night. . . .
     
    In the bridal chamber, the village women had bathed Brevelan. Combed her hair until it shone. Fussed over the fresh bedding and finally slipped a clean shift of fine linen and embroidery over Brevelan’s head. They had winked and remarked on that fineness and how the new husband would appreciate it—for a few moments anyway. And what a shame to leave the garment on the bride since it would only be torn away so quickly.
    They had left, giggling. But a few had looked back over their shoulders with a trace of concern. This was considered a good marriage. Brevelan was young and healthy. The bridegroom was as old as her da but prosperous and had sired several sons on each of his first three wives.
    Brevelan shuddered with a chill born of more than the evening dampness. Before the exquisite coverlet could warm her, he came in.
    He was drunk, of course, as were his ribald companions. Good-naturedly he blocked the doorway with his squat body. Barred from their fun, the other men, and a few women, shouted their displeasure.
    Brevelan didn’t have to understand the exact words, or her husband’s crude reply, to know they expected to watch the proceedings. It was a part of close-knit village life for the celebration of a wedding ceremony to extend to the bedroom. They all wanted to make sure the groom was capable of siring any child the bride produced months down the road.
    The blood drained from her face and hands. Her trembling become more violent as her husband shoved the door closed and barred it. The pounding on the mismatched slats of wood became louder. He slid Brevelan’s carved wooden clothes chest in front of it. The intruder’s entrance would be delayed, should they manage to break though the buckling wood.
    “We’d best hurry or they’ll think they have a right to be part of this.” His smile showed no mirth or joy.
    She couldn’t reply.
    His good woolen tunic fell atop the chest. The straw mattress shifted under his weight and his boots landed on the floor with a thud that echoed through her mind with menacing force. The mattress shifted again as he stood long enough to shed his trews. Only his knee-length shirt covered his bulging need for her.
    She shrank away to the far edge of the bed.
    “Come here, wife,” he demanded. His eyes narrowed to slits.
    She couldn’t obey, though she’d vowed to before the priest and village. Instead she pulled the covers higher.
    “Don’t play shy with me.” He climbed closer on his knees, braced with one heavy hand. The other yanked the blanket from her grasp. There was the sound of rending cloth as the embroidered edge tore through her fingers.
    Someone outside the door laughed at the sound. So did her husband.
    “We all know there’s no such thing as a virgin in this village. Lord Krej makes sure of that.” Spittle foamed at one corner of his mouth. His excitement mounted. He grabbed her breasts and squeezed until she cried out in pain. “If his brat isn’t already growing inside you, mine will be soon enough.”
    That shocked her. Hadn’t he heard the rumors? Didn’t he know Lord Krej was probably her father? Their lord might be cruel and lustful, but he wasn’t so evil as to rape his own daughter!
    “Doesn’t matter whose brat.” He belched. The foul smell of too much ale combined with too much meat in his body assaulted her. She wanted to retch. “One of his bastards brings favors to the family. I could use a few favors.” This time his mouth came down on her in a punishing, openmouthed kiss.
    She gagged.
    He laughed. Then he hit her, backhanded across the face. Once,