Arawn rose. The swiftness of his movement made Ilsa drop her hands and look up at him. He stared at her, his face working. She could see anger in his eyes. Fear, too. Something else burned there she could not fathom, though.
Silently, he turned and left.
The door was barred behind him.
Ilsa put her head in her hands once more and wept.
ARAWN DID NOT RETURN at midday as usual, although Ilsa did not go hungry, for all the food from breakfast was still there. She had no appetite for it, although she forced herself to eat the bread. It did settle her stomach.
The nausea did not linger into the afternoon. Ilsa remembered women of the village sitting with their heads together discussing such matters, which she had disdained in favor of hunting—much to their combined disgust.
Now she strained to remember everything she had ever heard. The sickness which accompanied pregnancy most often came only in the morning—she remembered that much. Her knowledge was all too sketchy, otherwise. It was sobering to realize that Arawn knew more about such womanly matters than she.
Her ignorance sat like a hot stone in the middle of her chest. Not knowing what was to come, now she was with child, left space for fear to grow.
As the sun was setting, sending bright square beams across the room through the high window, Arawn arrived.
Stilicho was not behind him, nor were the slaves.
“I see you have washed and changed. Good. Pick up your cloak, Ilsa.”
Ilsa’s heart lurched. “Cloak?”
“Do you want to leave this room, or not?” Arawn growled.
She sucked in a quick, startled breath and pawed through the chest. The heavy cloak was at the bottom and she pulled it out without regard for the other folded items. She was leaving the room!
Arawn stood at the open door and she moved toward it, her pace slowing. “You really mean it?”
Arawn moved through the door and stood on the other side, looking at her. “Notice there are no guards,” he added.
Her heart running harder than it should, Ilsa put on her cloak and stepped through the door. She drew in another trembling breath, looking around her. The wide corridor was empty. The door to Arawn’s antechamber stood open and she could see the big desk, with its piles of wax slates, books and letters. The room was empty of people. Whenever she had seen the antechamber in the past, there had always been dozens of officers and officials standing about, waiting to speak to Arawn.
The other end of the corridor opened onto the king’s hall. No guards were stationed there, either.
“Come along, then,” Arawn said, turning and walking toward the end of the corridor.
Her heart beat madly as Ilsa followed him down the corridor. Her legs felt stiff and uncooperative. She had not used them for extended exercise in days.
They moved out into the great hall and Ilsa stopped to sniff the fresh air and breathe deeply. It was November. The air was crisp and the wind from the sea carried the smell of salt and weed and sand.
The big fire-pit at the front of the hall crackled. Just beyond the fire was a row of guards. As Ilsa spotted them, they turned aside a slave, pointing the slave toward the eastern wing of the house and shaking their heads when the slave protested.
Arawn moved up alongside her. “I cannot let you go out among the trees. I will not risk you slipping and falling in the bath house. This is the best I can do, Ilsa. This is more than I should do. Here, though, you can breathe fresh air and feel the wind in your face.”
He caught her arm and drew her toward the back of the hall, where the big chair sat which Arawn used for public hearings. In front of the chair was laid a rug, more pillows and trays with food. She had not noticed them until now.
“We can eat our supper while you watch the sun go down,” Arawn told her. He sat on the rug as she once had, folding his legs in front of him. “Will this help?”
“Yes,” Ilsa said, her voice strained. “It will help.” She realized her cheeks were wet once more. She wiped them. “I keep doing this,” she whispered and sat on the rug beside the meal.
“It is the babe who does that to you,” Arawn said, pouring two cups of wine from the flask. He put one in front of her.
“It is?” Ilsa frowned and reached for the olives. She normally did not like olives—they were too salty for her taste. Now her mouth watered at the prospect of eating one. “There is much I have to learn about matters which most women take for granted. I am an ignorant fool, Arawn. Only now am I discovering how little I know of the world. How Stilicho must laugh at me.”
Arawn’s expression was startled. He sat with his mug half-raised, as if he had been struck by a great thought. Then he finished lifting the mug to his mouth and drank. “Then we are both fools, are we not?” he asked. “I only know what I have experienced for myself, too.” Then he shook his head, dismissing the notion and told her about his day, instead.
At the end of the meal, Ilsa lifted her chin, closed her eyes and breathed in the cold air. She warded off her disappointment that the meal was over and her time outside at an end. Instead, she got to her feet and moved to where Arawn waited at the entrance to the king’s quarters.
“We can do this again tomorrow,” Arawn said, as if he guessed her thoughts.
“Can we?” She did not bother to hide her pleasure at the idea.
“Until it is too cold to bear being outside at all,” Arawn told her. “It is not pleasant out here when the ground is iron hard and white with frost, no matter how high the fire.”
“I suppose we should stay inside then,” Ilsa admitted, although she had never limited herself to staying inside before, regardless of the weather.
Arawn smiled, as if he could hear her thoughts. He moved down the corridor toward the pair of doors facing each other.
Ilsa followed with slow steps and moved into the chamber she now hated with a passion.
“Where are you going?” Arawn asked, behind her.
Ilsa turned. “Where should I be going?” she asked, for he stood between the two rooms, still.
“In here,” Arawn said, moving into the antechamber.
Ilsa’s heart gave another unsteady flutter. She crossed the corridor and stepped into the big, airy antechamber and looked about. “Here? What is here?” she asked. “Apart from a great many objects which might suddenly spring to life and try to harm me,” she added.
Arawn shook his head. “If I am here, then I can keep you safe even from objects which spring to life.”
“I don’t understand.”
Arawn crossed his arms and even though the pose was casual, she could see his fingers digging into his arms. “I cannot spend my days tending you and ensuring you eat. Neither will I leave you free to wander the land where unhappy accidents lie in wait for you. Also…” he drew in a breath. “I grow tired of having to explain my days to you in every detail. It occurred to me it would be much easier if you learned of the developments for yourself.”
“You want me to stay here? During the day?”
“In there,” Arawn said, lifting a finger to point toward the inner bedchamber. The curtain over the archway was pulled aside. “I can conduct my business here as usual, and you would be privy to everything which happens here. The curtain can hide you from view if you wish it and no one, not even Stilicho, will be allowed to step through the archway. I can better protect you here than I can by locking you in your own room.”
Ilsa realized she had crossed her own arms, matching him. She was gripping her elbows just as tightly. She looked around the room. It was large, yes, although it was not a forest. How soon would she tire even of this room and its distractions, and the talk of men to listen to and analyze?
Arawn turned and moved toward the desk, with its piles of slates and books. “I have been thinking about what you said, about ignorance and how it hampers one. I don’t think I had considered it in that light before.” He picked up a slate and sat on the edge of the desk. “You and I should learn to read
and write. Stilicho can teach us.”
Ilsa drew in another shuddering breath. “Read?”
Arawn hefted the tablet, then rested his hand lightly on the rolls of books. “Then we can learn for ourselves, without having to experience painful lessons or rely on other people to provide the knowledge.”
“Women don’t read.”
“They don’t hunt, either, yet you do.” Arawn lifted a brow. “At the very least, learning your letters would give you something to do until the babe is born.”
“Something inside and safe,” she shot back.
Arawn’s smile was small, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It is the only way I can think of to contain you. You are a wild wind of a different sort, Ilsa.”
Ilsa moved over to the desk and studied the channels and lines in the wax on the top slate. It meant nothing to her, yet knowledge was held within the lines. Knowledge she could not access.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I want to learn to read.” She turned and threw her arms around Arawn’s neck. “Yes, yes, yes,” she breathed against his neck.
His arms came around her and held her and she realized she was crying yet again. She laughed and wiped her face. “I know. It’s the child I carry,” she assured him.
Arawn’s smile was small. “Not this time, I suspect.”
AS ONLY THE SMALL chest of Ilsa’s garments needed transferring to Arawn’s bed chamber, the move took place that night. Once she was settled in the bed chamber, Arawn allowed the antechamber to be opened to the usual business affairs.
The guards took up their normal positions in the corridor and at the end where the quarters began.
Few people called at that time of night. Ilsa contented herself with sitting upon the bench on the other side of the screen from the big bed and listening to the two visitors discuss patrols on the northern borders of the kingdom and the dispersal of the water-making equipment and seawater for villagers to boil down into fresh water.
She smiled to herself when one officer reported that Brandérion had set up their equipment and had successfully produced a barrel of fresh water.
“I think they got drunk upon it,” the officer said ruefully. “I’ve never seen such celebration over the tapping of a wine barrel.”
“To do something for oneself and not depend upon others, can often generate wild reactions,” Arawn said blandly. Isla wondered if he was thinking of her.
When no one else sought word with the king and Arawn and Stilicho were alone, Arawn told Stilicho of the new project and Stilicho’s role as tutor.
“You wish to be rid of me, master?” Stilicho asked, his voice strained.
Ilsa jerked to her feet, for she recognized the fear in his voice.
“Never, Stilicho,” Arawn said firmly. “If you do manage to teach me to read—and that is yet in question—then I will still need you to run my house and teach my children. There will be children, Stilicho. One day, there will be children.”
“Yes, my lord,” Stilicho said, doubt in his voice.
She sank back onto the bench, her heart thudding heavily. Did everyone in the house and the town…did everyone in the kingdom think Arawn was so thoroughly cursed it would never be broken?
Did they all secretly wait for Ilsa to die?
Over the next few days, a new routine established itself. In between the heavy load of work Arawn faced each day, even in the depths of winter, Stilicho would sit with them on either side of him at the desk, with a blank slate in front of each of them and the lamps turned up high to facilitate reading.
Stilicho would trace out letters with his stylus and they would repeat them, until they understood the alphabet. Then, he went through the sounds made by letter combinations.
While Arawn met with advisors and officers during the day, Ilsa would sit on the bench against the screen and practice her letters.
The days came and went, while winter deepened its hold. No snow fell, even though the air was crisp and cold enough for it, and everyone monitored the heavy gray clouds for flakes. Instead, the cold gripped the land until the ground was as hard as any metal and white with frost. No birds cooed outside the windows. Even the wind halted. The world grew still, as if it waited.
The winter solstice was nearly upon them and the afternoons were short and dim. Everyone hovered about braziers and firepits when they did not have work which pulled them away from the warming fires. They hunched inside their cloaks, wore extra tunics and wrapped rags about their hands so they could keep them warm even while they worked.
The evening suppers out in the great hall, with the air of the day against their skin, were moved to Arawn’s antechamber with the warm air from flames warming their faces, instead. While the remainder of the household ate in the triclinium, everyone was banished from the king’s quarters to allow Ilsa to emerge from the inner chamber to eat.
Increasingly, their suppers became a time to practice their reading and writing, as they drilled each other in letters and words and, eventually, sentences.
The Christians in the household were preparing for their own solstice festival the day everything changed again.
Arawn had given the Christians leave to attend the church that evening, when Colwyn petitioned on their behalf. After Colwyn had left, Stilicho said, “The cook has a haunch of mutton which could serve as a feast day offering. I can tell the cook to prepare it for them, with your permission.”
“Yes, yes,” Arawn said, his tone irritable.
“Or perhaps you feel it would be too much of a drain on our winter stores, my lord?” Stilicho said carefully. He was probing Arawn’s mood.
Ilsa put her slate down, her attention sharpening.
“They are entitled to celebrate their most holy day, Stilicho,” Arawn said, sounding even more frustrated. “Hand me the wine cup, will you?”
“My lord, are you quite well?” Stilicho asked, his voice rising.
Ilsa got to her feet, alarm skittering through her. Stilicho’s voice rarely moved from its calm, urbane cadence. Now he sounded concerned. She moved across the floor to where she could see through the archway into the antechamber.
Arawn lurched to his feet. “Damn it, the wine, man,” he muttered, reaching for the cup which stood in front of Stilicho. His hand didn’t reach it. Arawn paused, blinking, staring at the surface of the desk.
He swayed.
Ilsa screamed as Stilicho threw himself forward and caught Arawn as his knees buckled.
Stilicho hoisted Arawn up over his shoulder with a grunt of effort and carried him into the bed chamber. “The furs,” he said, gasping. “Pull them aside.”
Arawn hung limp over his shoulder.
Ilsa almost ran to the bed. She tore the furs aside and pushed pillows and cushions into place at the head, then skipped aside as Stilicho bent and dropped Arawn onto the bed.
Arawn’s arm fell off the side of the bed and his hand scraped against the floor. His face was damp with sweat and the thick curls of his hair plastered wetly to his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were closed.
Ilsa put her hand to her mouth. “What is wrong with him?”
Stilicho tore open Arawn’s cloak. The tunic beneath was dark with sweat. Stilicho used his eating knife to tear the tunic open, too. Then he looked up at her. “Get away from here,” he snapped. “Leave and don’t come back into this room until the physician has tended him. Go back to your chamber and wait there.”
Ilsa could feel her mouth drop open. Stilicho had never spoken to her with such a peremptory tone before.
“I’ll find someone to send for the physician,” she said.
“No!” Stilicho swung about to face her. His tanned face was tight, his brows together. “You cannot risk the babe. Go back to your chamber. I will send for the physician. Go!”
She put her hand to her rounded belly, a more powerful alarm bursting through her. She scurried from the room, snatched up the lamp on Arawn’s desk and flung the door open.
The guards snapped to attenti
on outside the door.
“Find a physician,” she told them. “The king is ill.”
They didn’t question her. One glanced inside, then jerked his head at the other, his helmet glinting in the light of the lamp she held. The two of them hurried down the corridor toward the hall. By the time they reached the end of the corridor, they were running.
Ilsa pushed open the door to her chamber. The room seemed far smaller than she remembered despite there being no furniture but the bed. There was nowhere to put the lamp except to balance it on the top of the thick trunk which made a corner of the bed.
Her heart running heavily, fear turning her blood to a thick, hot soup, Ilsa stood and gripped her hands. Beyond the door, men called anxious questions. In front of the house was more shouting and the clop of hooves. They were sending for the physician.
Ilsa walked in a slow, looping circle from one end of the room to the other, to turn beside the bed, then head for the door once more. The door was not barred yet it might as well be, for she could no more step out and expose her child to whatever had struck down Arawn than she could fly.
She wrapped her heavy cloak about her firmly for it was cold in the room—far colder than Arawn’s chambers. As she walked, she listened to the sounds beyond the room. There were many hurrying and running feet and lots of voices talking over the top of one another, fear making their tones strident.
When a voice became clear enough, Ilsa stopped and listened, her heart straining, hoping for news.
Time passed. The air grew colder, marking the passage of the night. The moon rose, framed in the high window, then departed. Still people hurried to and from the antechamber, although not as many, now. their voices had grown calmer and softer.
Ilsa could not sit. Standing was intolerable. She walked, sometimes fast as her fear rose, sometimes slowly, as she gathered more sensible thoughts together.
Dragon Kin Page 20
