Self-Made Scoundrel by Tristan J. Tarwater Page B

the lamp on a stand, lighting it with a match. The oil in the lamp burned and the scent of rich woods and night blooming flowers wafted through the temple.
    Dershik thought of the dagger in his boot, the lamp oil in the stable, the hollow under the tree. The hole he would leave when he was gone, that he hoped Ceric would be able to fill. Even if his brother wasn’t the Baron, he could still be with Jerila. And with Dershik gone, would his father’s plan to usurp the Church and become a king hold? It was an act of defiance against his father, leaving, the only one that would stick. Dershik’s protests were worthless to his father. The idea of killing a man rose in his mind and the scent of the devotional incense seemed too heavy in his nose, almost suffocating. Would Fil be missed? They would assume Fil killed him, wouldn’t they? In a drunken rage, if it made any difference. They’d bury Fil’s body in Derk’s grave, beside his mother. He wondered if his father would cry at his wake or if he would immediately start making new plans.
    “Do you need prayer, Dershik?” Cira asked finally, interrupting his dark thoughts. Dershik jerked his head toward her before staring back at the floor, shaking his head.
    “No,” he sighed. He put his hands on his thighs and stood up, walking over to her. Dershik took both her hands in his, their eyes meeting. His heart thumped in his chest but when he leaned over, he kissed her on the cheek. It was a kiss full of restraint. His mouth lingered on the side of her face and when he pulled his lips off of her skin, he rested his forehead on her temple, smelling the unique scent of her skin and hair, feeling her hands gripping his.
    Then she kissed him on the mouth. Dershik pulled away from her but still held her hands in his, not sure if he should let go. He looked toward the door and then back to her, biting his bottom lip in anticipation. The look on her face told him she wanted more than a kiss. Dershik remembered the night in his room when he had chased her away, too drunk to make good decisions. He was sober now and tomorrow, he would be gone. Would sleeping with Cira make leaving more difficult or easier? They both looked to the door, not surprised to find they were still alone. Dershik took her in his arms and kissed her, letting her pull him out of the temple through the side door. They walked through the shadow of the keep, the sun already setting. Cira led him into her room and locked the door behind him, throwing him down onto the bed.
    When they were done, Dershik watched as she dressed quickly, pulling on her skirts and robes over her pale skin. She had a birthmark on her stomach he had never seen before, and he sat up in her bed, realizing he’d probably never see it again. Not unless he came back to her room before tomorrow night. Cira smiled at him as she plaited her thick, dark hair with long, slender fingers. Before he got too comfortable in the bed he was up, looking for his clothes.
    As he walked back to the keep he thought not about Cira but tomorrow night and what he would have to do. A part of him wondered if having Cira would make life more bearable at the keep, and what it would mean for Jerila. Priestesses were allowed to take as lovers whomever they wished and did occasionally marry but he and Cira could obviously never be. And when his father found out, he would send Cira away sooner rather than later.
    Dershik knew what he wanted. He had to put all this behind him and move forward. But first, there would have to be blood. Blood and fire.
     
    Dershik sat in the abandoned stable, holding his breath. Fil sat across from him, eyes barely open. The cards were strewn on straw-littered ground and the pitcher of spirits he had brought was empty. The lamp gave off a feeble light, low and hidden behind a barrel. Fil had come easily enough, already in his cups when Dershik had put the question to him and offering something he didn’t think Fil would refuse. He’d