Author's Note: I was thinking of what the SotL villains have in common. More comparisons may follow (Roger to Delia, Roger to Alex). N.B. "may."
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Heat
Josiane stood facing the surging fire. In her mind, she fanned it with the bellows of her anger and razed the castle to crumbling ashes. She needed a mirror image, a companion to her wound.
Forgive me, he had told her. But I cannot accept this match, for the good of all concerned. She was still welcome in his court, he told her, as an honored guest. Brittle, empty words. He had promised her gold, and delivered pyrite. She would not be sated.
On a shelf along the north wall lay, among other exotic trinkets, a jeweled Carthaki dagger. Going to the shelf now, she stood on tiptoe to reach it, stretching every joint as her fingertips just brushed the handle.
Though our individual desires may tempt us, my duty to my kingdom must be supreme.
She grasped the cool metal hilt and drew it down to her.
…And I owe every precaution to its safety.
Back to the fire. She knelt, feeling the heat envelop her face, and passed the blade through the flames like a blacksmith toning steel to just the right heat. Enough fire to heat the blade, but not deform it.
She withdrew the dagger and let it cool a minute. There was a small ritual Copper Islanders performed over an oath of revenge. She had witnessed it often, somehow always wanted to participate.
Holding the dagger's point to her palm, she slowly drew it sideways, parting the skin and letting a pale fluid ooze out. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder; now her hand wept blood. She continued working to etch three intersecting lines. She relished the mark. It was a pact with herself.
"Not very ladylike."
She turned to find the Duke of Conté lazing against the doorframe. Josiane watched him with narrowed eyes.
"His duty to the kingdom must be supreme?" Roger quoted with a lilt of mockery. He tutted. "Never trust men, Josiane. They'll just use you when it pleases them, and throw you away when they're done."
She strode over to him, still clutching the dagger. Her left palm smarted, a reminder. Roger watched her with cool amusement, clearly not surprised.
She held out the dagger. "Destroy Jonathan of Conté ," she said. "Every resource I have will be yours for the cause."
He took the dagger and solemnly made a gash in his own palm. Then he clasped hers. His hand was warm and damp with blood (or was it hers?). She looked up at him.
A glint of white-hot rage showed in his eyes. She locked onto that rage, breathed it in, was nourished from it. She wanted more.
"Sweet Princess," Roger crooned, "it would be my pleasure."