defiantly silent. He wouldn’t wear a dress, and they couldn’t force him into one.
“Suit yourself. At least clean up so you don’t offend him with your stench.”
Tyr started to unlace his trousers and stopped, mindful of the men’s blatant stares. He’d never been modest before, but in this body, he was vulnerable to the disreputable longings of a man. Could he best the warden a second time? The question wasn’t one Tyr wanted to put to a test, and so he turned around. “Close the door and step away from the window. I won’t have you gawking while I make myself presentable.”
The warden licked his lips and grinned but stepped back into the corridor and shut the door.
Tyr used the cloth to wipe his face and hands clean and then let his trousers slide down to his ankles. Three puncture scars puckered the skin on the front of his left hip, a permanent reminder of how Cirang Deathsblade had met her end. If he twisted his torso and craned his neck, he could see the other two in the back, but he didn’t need to. Even the gentlest swipe of the cloth told him the injury hadn’t fully healed. Marring his chest, shoulder and back on the left, a similar wound made him wince when it came time to wash his upper body. He ran the cloth under his arms and between his legs, reminded again the body wasn’t the one he was born in.
He paused, unsure whether he’d imagined the hot breath on his neck or it was real. He turned to find the warden standing only inches away with one hand down the front of his trousers. He grabbed Tyr by the hair and yanked him up close. “Don’t fight and it won’t hurt as bad.”
Something poked his belly. Something Tyr didn’t want to think about. “Don’t. I’ll tell the lordover,” he said.
“I’ll tell the lordover,” the warden said in a mocking voice. “You think Celónd cares about a dirty wench like you?” His breath was hot in Tyr’s ear. He shoved Tyr away with a laugh. “Soon, bitch, but not today.”
With the trousers bunched around his ankles, Tyr stumbled and barely caught himself. He yanked his trousers up and laced them, then smoothed the tunic’s hem into place. “Not any day, if you value your life.”
The guard snapped iron shackles onto Tyr’s wrists, tossed a cloak over his shoulders, and gripped his upper arm as they walked past the other cells filled with hooting, lustful men and outside into the rain. The injury to his hip made his step uneven, though the pain wasn’t as bad now as it had been at first. Tyr squeezed his eyes shut against the rain and trusted his escort to lead him.
They entered a building in which the foyer was clean and stylish, decorated by a statue of a breaching whale. A handsome man in a trim, red and black suit met them at the door. “Wipe your boots,” he said. “I won’t have you tracking mud across the lordover’s floor.” Satisfied Tyr and his guards had wiped their feet sufficiently on the small rug, he led them down the hallway, knocked twice on a closed dark oak door and opened it. Inside, Dashel Celónd, the wiry, redheaded Lordover Tern, sat at a wide desk, writing.
From his pinched expression and stiff shoulders, the lordover struck Tyr as a churlish and resentful man who made snap judgments. This wasn’t the kind of person Tyr could easily manipulate, nor was he in the position of doing favors for Celónd to win his loyalty, as had been his favored business strategy when he’d been a man. Without his resources, reputation, and exotic look, he needed a new approach, and he had what men wanted.
It was time for Sithral Tyr to abandon his identity as a Nilmarion man and start thinking of himself as the swordswoman, Cirang Deathsblade. He didn’t need to adopt her weaknesses, but he was stranded in her body, perhaps forever. It was time to explore her strengths.
“The king’s prisoner, my lord,” the guard said.
Cirang smiled seductively and stepped in.
Chapter 5
“They’re already assembled in the council chamber, my liege,” the boy said.
“Aw, hell,” Gavin muttered. The meeting. He was expected to name a new Supreme Councilor of the Militia, with three people hoping to be appointed. Someone was going to be unhappy but hopefully not disgruntled enough to leave his service. He rode back to the rear door of the palace, where