He rose to his feet.
Tristian's stunned gaze remained on the sack as he collected it and dumped the tiny black capsules into his hand.
"It's all there," he murmured down at him. "It should get you through the months when I'm away next, being our father's bitch."
"Rhenan—"
"I keep your secrets, Tristian. I respect your pain. The least you could do is respect mine."
6
~ QUEEN PETRA ~
Thornhall, Redthorn
"He wished for me to go for something cheaper," Jocelyn stated with a dismissive roll of her eyes. Her voice was sharp and urgent with her irritation, for this was a matter she imagined was of great importance to the company she kept around the table.
The doors leading to the balcony were wide open, permitting her family to be painted in a delicate yellowish hue. The time of day was her favourite for she enjoyed beholding her husband and children in the evening light. The setting sun caused their eyes to be all the more iridescent, a warm and rich molten that was impossible to replicate in all the jewels she had laid her eyes upon. As such, it seemed only fitting that they dine with the view of the Sun Garden before them, with its arrangements of sunflowers, roses and dahlias representing all flavours of yellow.
Petra hid a smirk behind the rim of her wine glass as she took a small sip. It was a fine white vintage and complimented the sea bass upon her plate perfectly. The grey scales of the fillet twinkled quite pleasantly in the cascading light. Resting on a bed of lettuce and tomatoes, both fresh from the ground of vine, the fish was cooked to perfection. A small plate of lemon quarters rested before her so she might sprinkle it as a dressing over her meal. Her eyes occasionally flickered to her husband and the contents of his plate. It appeared his fish, fried in golden batter which now seemed customary, had leapt from its bed of salad and had taken to lying isolated on the clear porcelain cyan floor.
Reflecting on Jocelyn's complaint, the woes of a wife, she had learned early in her own marriage, were best nagged into the ear of the one man who could do something about it. The husband. That was, unless the bride's family was royal and could interject on her behalf. On this occasion, intervention was required for Lord Kristoph Faston to understand that his royal wife required expensive headgear.
Even then the husband may take it upon himself to do absolutely nothing to adhere to his wife's request. Just this morning she had endured the struggle of attempting to heave her husband's breaches over the recently-formed roundness around his middle. She had forbade him then from sneaking additional sweet treats from the offered plates or sending his servants to the kitchens so he might sample their fresh, decadent creations.
"Did you explain to him that while it is prudent for a young woman to consider her expenses carefully it simply cannot do for her to be seen spending too little on millery?" Petra posed the question across the table, the girl having been seated beside her father.
The arrangement had always been this way ever since they were children. They sat within the castle's dining hall, a rather large space which consisted of their long table and tall raftered ceilings that left echoes if one did not mind their pitch. Her sons were on either side of her as she sat at the head of the table, while the daughters sat beside their brothers and either side of the husband who mirrored her position. A comfortable mixture of formal and casual, just the way Petra liked it.
A modest array of dishes formed a line across the centre of the table, though nothing protruded in the way of any of the occupant's vision so they could not view the person opposite. It had been that way for years, ever since her boys, namely Rhenan, had taken a joy in jeering, gurning, and pulling all manner of faces to the other. The face pulling had still continued, but at least it stopped the soul beside them from being jolted from their seats when the floral centrepiece obstructed boisterous teasing.
"I did, but he said we should be mindful of our finances for a 'rainy day'. What does that even mean?"
"Perhaps it is male ignorance?" Bethan posed as she slid the adjacent brother an unimpressed glance. Tristian, the one who did not pander to their tales and complaints. As she was the one who remained at home, for her marriage contract had not yet been finalised, she was relegated to a seat beside her eldest sibling, while Jocelyn had her seat of choice.
"They do not look quite as impressive in hats and bonnets as the fairer sex, so why ought they to care?" Petra considered the image of her grown sons in fashionable headwear, adorned with frills and feathers, and was quite horrified.
Sharing a glance either side of her, she offered both a gentle grin. "Though when they were Wesley's age they looked quite delightful in their Winter bonnets."
"Is that so?" Rhenan at once instigated, thick bushel for brows knotting together.
Tristian released an exaggerated wind through his teeth, glaring to his younger brother before settling a bewildered expression her way. "It must be so, given we hear of it at least once a year."
"Ah, yes," his brother murmured back, a razored smile cutting across chiseled features. "But I have a faulty memory, you see. So mother, do remind me. Did you say Tristian begged for the pink bonnet over the blue?"
Tristian glowered.
"I could be wrong. Hence why retellings are so critical."
Petra laughed in unison with her daughters, as the three were always prone to when humourous remarks tumbled from Rhenan's lips. She placed her empty glass upon the table and cocked a dark brow, while her eyes shone with amusement. Offering her husband a quick, knowing smile, Petra settled back in her chair.
"Your memory is so abysmal, my son, that you neglect to recall that neither the pink nor the blue suited Tristian. His cheeks had a habit of turning so rosy that I settled for pale yellow. How charming he looked!" Her finger lightly jabbed Tristian's arm, with an expression that conveyed she was only playing, though there was some truth in the recollection. "And you were such a good boy and did not grumble. You only gathered that habit later. I recalled commenting to your father when you were around ten that you would be better suited to the stage than the crown, for you were such an expert in the dramatics."
"And he's grown to be a master," Jocelyn commented with a smug glance in her brother's direction.
Tristian answered with a half-hearted grumble, averting his gaze from both offending parties.
"Perhaps you all have. Grumbling to his brother as Tristian does, or moaning to her family to interject over something so unimportant as hat prices. Perhaps you all should be on the stage. It would give your father and I a much needed rest, would you not agree, dear?" The queen's caramel gaze tuned to her husband before her left eye twitched in her best imitation of a wink.
King Gregor was a rather grizzly man with grizzly habits and a grizzly voice. Just then, the bear sat wearing a rather placated mask, fingers petting and minding the thick brier of a beard descending an interestingly structured profile. He hadn't a clue what any of them had said.
This was to be expected of him, just as she anticipated some form of bickering around the table between her children, or rather, Tristian and his siblings. Off in his own world, as he had done for many years. The most senile young man, she used to call him. Now she took it as a comfort that he was not plagued by the dementias that appeared in people their age or older. It was just Gregor.
"Good evening, Your Grace!" she snapped at him, stern and clear, yet her expression betrayed her amusement.
"Hmm-hm?" Startled, gruff, oblivious. A deep network of scorched gold sailed across the table to land on her gaze solely. He cleared his throat and gave a nod that may have been meant to look involved and informed. "Tristian, leave your siblings be."
No sooner, Petra was given an asking, guilty glance. Was that what you wanted?
"I commented that our children are worthy of the stage for they are so very dramatic," Petra informed him. The smile remained, despite his grumpiness, for it was endearing more than offensive to her. "Lady Constance might not appreciate ho
w dramatic he is."
"Lady Constance whipped herself for failing to pray on time," Bethan added softly. "I do not think she appreciates anything that might contradict the faith."
Petra had heard this tale before.
Lady Constance was the upstanding, pious niece of Father Conwell, the most respected male in the whole of the Sirista. When the female was to come of age at eighteen years, she was set to wed her son, Prince Tristian himself, thus officially uniting the crown and church.
Once, Bethan had been invited to stay with her brother's betrothed four years prior. Despite being two years younger than the princess, Constance had possessed the piety of a woman four times her age. Even then, an elderly woman may not have held the faith in the same regard as young Constance. It was a pure and rigid form of piety, one which stretched the capabilities of the body and mind. She lacked girlish excitement and charm, but it meant little in terms of being a devout young woman. An ideal queen she would be, and she hoped her son would be glad to have her by his side.
"Will she be in attendance at the festival?" Jocelyn asked.
"She informed us graciously that she would not. Usually I would suggest it is wise that she makes an appearance at court, but we know it is not her way. She will make her proper debut upon the eve of the marriage. She wishes to devote her time to prayer rather than the festivities. It is good that she stands by her principles," Petra answered.
In truth it was. She had her beliefs and held them in greater importance than anything else. A pious queen would be appreciated, perhaps more so than the charitable queen Petra considered herself to be. Petra was responsible for the putting of food upon tables, the repairing of buildings, construction of hospitals and manufacturing of affordable cloth. Constance would be responsible for the salvation of their souls.
After sharing a menacing look with her sister and Rhenan, Jocelyn turned to Tristian. Her golden eyes shone with the promise of a quip on his behalf as the corners of her mouth turned up in a feline smile.
"So you have one last chance to chase skirts before you are chained down for good. Like a filthy, hungry old hound you can snap and drool at the heels of women who are certainly more to your liking, but who you can only briefly savour rather than keep for the entire meal."
Petra tutted and offered Tristian a look of stern warning. "He will not be doing that, will you Tristian? You will be on your best behaviour, yes?"
Her son did not answer immediately, though it was apparent he was prepared to relinquish a firm 'no.' To which question, it was hard to say, for the word never left his tongue, the retentions of his manners seeming to take precedence.
His large form shifted, his eyes berating—a defiant light, peering through the thick row of black lashes.
"Oh, my brother will abstain, Mama," Rhenan interjected impatiently. "After all, he is such a righteous prince, deserving of all of our deference. Isn't that right, Tristian?"
The two men shared a look that suggested they knew something she didn't.
"Speaking of righteous," Tristian finally spoke. "Is it true we're to allow those northern heretics to our gathering?" The question was directed at Gregor, who was still busy pampering the setting of his beard. "Father," he prompted.
Her husband shot their son an icy glare, which no sooner took the shape of something more exuberant. "Petra, how many hogs were registered with the cook?"
Rhenan chuckled at the direct dismissal of his brother, or perhaps it was the king's priorities itself.
"Half a hundred for the first day alone," Petra stated, though her eyes remained fixed on the young men either side of her, urging them to behave. "Birds of all sorts, veal, venison, swans even, for the finale. The numbers have vanished from memory, but it will be an impressive show. What is needed from those around this table is unity and good behaviour." A nod was afforded each son. "Boys."
Tristian only gave a half-hearted inclination of his head. "Yes, unity."
Then Rhenan. "Good behaviour."
Neither so much as looked to her.
But Gregor was nodding enthusiastically at her assurance, though clearly he was more concerned with profligacy and the image the guest floated home with. "And the cakes, dear Petra. Tell me about the—"
"How is the cake of importance here?" Tristian demanded, fist clenching, eyes narrowed.
"Here or in general?" asked the king.
Incredulous, her first son shrank back in his seat. "The Sirista may well forbid my wife-to-be from attending, but do you think news of those multi-god worshipers attending will not reach them?"
The Sirista was Redthorn's longest standing church since centuries before the Dark Rebellion. It was a name that never faded, a religion which only grew larger and stronger. Those who stood at its fronts were said to be nearly as powerful as the royals themselves. News of the Misseldons' attendance likely reached them before it did the king.
Gregor waved off his son's remark. "The gathering is not about faiths—"
"What are they ever about?"
"—but the pervasion of our family's image, which might I remind you, is one of grandeur. It is just as your mother said, we are to exude unity and good behaviour, welcoming to all who arrive. Pay mind to the terminology, Tristian: welcoming, not accepting. Thellemere has been neighbour to Redthorn for many years and things have been quiet between us. If the Misseldons wish to send two of their broods to a festival, let them."
Tristian scoffed. "If the Sirista believes Constance should not be of attendance, as her husband-to-be, should I not reciprocate?"
"You will attend," Gregor bit out. "That girl is the face of the church, just as you are destined to be the face of this kingdom."
"If only you were born a girl," Rhenan sang, quieting when Gregor cut him a look, though it was clear both men found amusement in it.
"I don't regret my duty," Tristian said, folding his arms. More defiance, more posturing.
"Duty," Rhenan belittled, the word made into a snide dereliction.
It was little wonder she did not snap the bridge of her nose considering the intense pressure she was putting upon it. Difficult, that was the best word to describe her sons, and at times her husband. Tristian, who took issue with the guest list he did not even assist in compiling. Rhenan who prodded the fire, wishing for more heat. Gregor for even dignifying Tristian's complaints with a response.
"Let's all calm down for a moment," Petra began as she slid her gaze to each occupant of the table.
Jocelyn had her lips pursed as if she was containing laughter or remarks that would agitate Tristian further. Bethan appeared bored of it all.
"First of all, we will all attend. Your father is correct. We wish to show off our image to all, regardless of whether they are of the faith or not. Their misguided path is their own concern. On this occasion we will not attempt to convert, nor will we even criticise. I understand their land is rich in iron and steel. Let us not push them from our minds, for their cooperation may prove useful in the future."
"While I hate to agree with Tristian, perhaps he has a point," Jocelyn began, raising a hand as if interrupting the schoolmistress to speak. "Are they not dangerous?"
"They are younger than you all. A prince who requires experience with such events for I understand he will not inherit the crown. The sister is a girl." She turned to give Tristian a weary yet humoured glance. "And I am sure my eldest son is not scared of a little girl."
"I am, Mama," said Rhenan. "Afraid of a little girl. For you see, I was raised—nay, traumatised—by two very specific girls, though I will not offer forth their names, for I still see them from time to time. Haunting me. Sitting at the very table we dine. Speaking of accoutrements and cheap husbands."
"But you were such an easy target!" Jocelyn interjected.
Bethan nodded in agreement. "I am sure we did not mean it. Most of the time, anyway,"
Tristian kept a bland look, then shrugged. "Fear was not my concern. It's the fact that those creatures have severed their t
ies and contact with us for going on two centuries. Now suddenly they wish to attend one of Father's whimsical parties?"
"Whimsical?" came her husband's utmost offence.
"He meant carefully orchestrated, essential and dire congregations," Rhenan applied, possibly batting his lashes along the way.
"Ah-ha!" Gregor's hands slammed onto the table, as though in sudden epiphany. "Theatrics. This is what you meant, Petra. And my are you right, our son is adroit in the profession."
After jumping at the sound of her father's hands against the table, Bethan giggled. "Do you think he can juggle too?"
"Stand on his head?" Jocelyn offered.
"Oh, but then he would ruin his hair," Bethan replied.
Petra chuckled at the image and shook her head. "We cannot have him ruining his lovely curls. But, we can have him be nice and polite, lots of that charming smile directed at those northerners. You and Rhenan can both give the little princess a twirl around the dance floor. Can, meaning, you will."
"I will not," Tristian said instantly, having ignored the previous jibes, his flat gaze now boring into hers. "But my brother is welcome to taint his soul."
"Too late," Rhenan divulged. "So I do believe I will twirl a time or two—to make sure I'm lathered in taint and what have you."
Gregor looked to be in agreement with Tristian, yet kept to silence and beard-stroking.
"Ah, well, that concludes this swell family gathering. If you would excuse us." Rhenan came to his feet and cast each sister a look and an arm to latch onto. "Shall we?"
"Anything to free me from this sulky oaf," Jocelyn announced. She came to her feet and took the offered limb, while Bethan rose in silence. "You know, I thought you may have changed, Tristian, grown up and been a little more welcoming and understanding while I was away. How wrong I was."
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 9
