Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Without a window the room was near pitch, and I couldn’t see anything either. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want them to know I was awake, but wondered if the woman knew I was in the room. It occurred to me she must have, for the entire inn saw that Braylar and I were sharing the room. I doubted a patron had arrived in the middle of the night, and doubted even more that even if she had she would’ve immediately made her way into a strange man’s bed. Presuming then that it was a woman already in the inn, I began to wonder who it could be when the answer struck me like cold water. Syrie.

Would my mother have cared about a man being in the room? Probably not. Why should Syrie have been different?

I felt my cheeks grow hot and wondered how I could excuse myself. Perhaps I should have simply cleared my throat and gotten up with a blanket, heading downstairs to join the others on the common floor. That would’ve been awkward, but so was staying put. Deprived of all sight and now fully alert with my anxiety, I heard the rest of the noises with an almost inhuman clarity. And really wished I hadn’t.

There were some soft sounds and movement-what I assumed was them slipping out of whatever remained of their clothing-and a giggle from who I was certain then must have been Syrie. There was a sharp wooden sound-the slats of the bed adjusting to the weight shifting above them-followed by another giggle. Braylar said something, though, trying as hard as I could despite my paralyzed embarrassment, I couldn’t discern individual words. I heard nothing for some time, save my own breathing mixed with theirs, and while much of me hoped they’d fallen asleep, I’m shamed beyond my ability to express that there was a part of me that yearned to hear more. I tried to comfort myself by thinking that it was a common enough human curiosity, nothing more-a fascination with what people do in the dark when they’re alone (or believe they aren’t being spied on)-but I wasn’t certain I believed that.

Their breathing became slightly more rapid, and I tried very hard to maintain my own, wondering how it had sounded before my waking and trying to approximate the breathing of a sleeping man as best I could. I heard Syrie moan as their bodies shifted, a small sound that seemed to originate from the back of her throat and exit through a closed mouth. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out what was occurring on the next bed for a moment or two and fill my mind with some other, more pure thought, but in doing so, I found myself imagining more keenly what they were doing. Was she spreading her legs for him? Was his hand on her thigh or small breasts that had caused her to moan so, or had it traveled to the core of her sex? I felt filthy with such questions and visions in my head, but the more disgusted I became, the more I found I couldn’t think of anything. I was horrified to discover that I was becoming physically aroused myself, listening to them couple in the dark alongside me.

And my horror only increased when, unbidden, I began to wonder how many men my mother must have lain with like this. It wasn’t even her father who ran the Jackal, so there was even less reason to be chaste or selective. I remembered far too many nights when she hadn’t returned to our room until dawn, and even at a young age I knew it wasn’t because she’d been cleaning as she so often claimed, but only vaguely guessed at what the real reason was. At least she hadn’t brought them to our bed. There was that small mercy.

Syrie moaned again, slightly louder this time-I pictured her mouth opening, her head thrown back, perhaps turning to the side-and then Braylar began whispering unintelligible words again. I tried to remember the last time I’d whispered words to a lover, to recall exactly what it was I might have said, but I couldn’t focus. The whispering ended, and I heard his lips on her body-I pictured his mouth moving down from her ear, traveling along the course of her neck, her head twisting again as he did, kiss by kiss down her shoulder, her arm. I might have been correct, but if I was, judging from the sucking sound I heard next, the lips had detoured off an arm and made their way quickly to a breast.

She exhaled sharply as he sucked, and the slats creaked again as they changed position on the bed. I imagined him, mouth on her breast, one hand in her hair, rubbing the nape of her neck, the other traveling up her thigh, her legs spreading farther. And with each sound, and each instance I interpreted those sounds, I found myself becoming increasingly more aroused as well as disgusted with my arousal. I felt the urge to touch myself, and an equally strong urge to roll over and press my stomach to the mattress, to prohibit my perversion from growing further.

I could tell Syrie was trying to muffle her sounds, and I was sure her head was turned, her mouth in her pillow. I imagined her pulling the edge of it up with one hand in an attempt to stifle the growing intensity of her passion. If so, she removed the pillow long enough to whisper something to him. I couldn’t understand much, but from the tone, she was concerned about waking me. Braylar responded, and I heard him clearly this time, “Fear not-he sleeps like the dead tonight.” She whispered something else in return, and he replied, “He’s sotted, I swear.” There was another movement, and I heard her cry out sharply, whatever momentary concern she might have had overcome with lust.

Still, her small show of modesty and consideration for what she believed to a sleeping man shamed me still further. But it still didn’t cool my heated blood. The slats groaned, and I heard him shift his weight-was he mounting her now? had she succumbed and spread her legs to accept him? — she moaned her muffled moans anew and I was sure I had my answer. Feeling torn in my two directions, I twisted my blanket in my hands and balled it into my fists, closing my eyes as tightly as I could, trying to think of the look of pain on Syrie’s brother’s face as he was mocked by the soldiers, the look on the soldier’s face as Braylar had a blade to his throat. But these were fleeting, and couldn’t distract me from the two bodies joining only a few feet away from me. I simultaneously wanted to touch myself to release the growing ache in my stomach and to scream, “I’m here!”

But I did neither and then something surprising occurred. I heard Syrie say “No.” Braylar continued groaning-was his head buried in her hair? were his hands locked in hers? was he kneading her flesh? — and she repeated herself more loudly, “No, I can’t do this.”

I still heard their bodies slapping together with the same pace, and Braylar replied through gritted teeth, “You can, Syrie, yes, yes, yes you can.”

She said “I won’t,” loud enough that if I hadn’t already been awake her protests would’ve changed that. The slapping of skin on skin stopped then, and I heard nothing more but their heavy breathing for a few moments. I was afraid the captain was going to force himself on her, but the next thing I heard was feet hitting the wooden floor soundly. Braylar said, “Get out.” Followed by silence. Then, more loudly, “Out with you! Get dressed and go. Now.”

I imagined her holding the blanket up to her chin, her face flushed with fleeting lust and confusion. Barely above a whisper, she said, “Please. Don’t be angry. It’s just, well, were we alone and all, I’d-”

He laughed, “You grow suddenly shy in the middle of fucking a stranger because there’s an audience? No. Get out.”

I heard her shift her weight, perhaps rolling onto one elbow, touching his shoulder or his elbow, saying, “This doesn’t mean-”

But again, he didn’t let her finish. “It’s a simple word. There’s no mistaking its meaning. Much like the word ‘no.’ Out.” Whatever fire she might have still felt went out as surely as if he’d pissed on it. Which was ironic, considering what happened next. I heard him stand and take a few hesitant steps. The sound of metal rattling on the wood. A few seconds later, the sound of liquid hitting the metal. In the silence, it sounded like thunder or battle.