"Those ships carried some of our finest vintages as a means to entice peace and negotiation," said his father.
"I am aware, Your Grace." The captain glanced to the icy grounds, breaths coming out in white smoke.
His father's grey eyes slithered down to him and Ethan couldn't help it, he looked away and gulped.
King Robert was not the man to wrong, lest one sought a premature end for themselves and their families. Either Pyracea's King Clement enjoyed flirting with the guiles of death, or he was a fool in rich men's clothing.
"Where are they now?" was his father's question.
"They march on us as we speak."
It was always the same with King Robert. When Ethan was younger, much younger, and their mother had caught him or his siblings in an act of insubordination, always did she report back to their father, 'This child has been insolent.'
Never did he ask what they'd done, who was to blame or if there was an accomplice. He merely issued punishment.
Such as now. But Ethan was curious. This was not a matter of a naughty child. This was grounds for war.
"Father," he spoke with granite, enough to stake his right to be heard. "Should we not be asking why it is their king has sunk the ships?"
King Robert folded his arms and closed his eyes, lips strained, brows taut, the black garb enveloping his pale image. "It will not alter the outcome."
"But it might salvage the chance for peace and negotiation."
"You are not A'zur. You are always so naive."
Was that an actual compliment spared for his first born son?
"Just as well," Robert murmured, then looked to the captain with a slit gaze. "Tell my son what he wishes to hear."
The captain nodded and his green eyes were grim, his mouth as taut as the king's. "Four nights prior, the Princess Lucia Peveral was found missing from her bouidor. The men who took her wore colours of black and purple, some of white and black, and when spotted traveling the paths between their two main cities, there were sightings of a hailed Lymerean flag."
Ethan lost his breath, his eyes cutting up to his father's face, but still the man implicated ice and indifference. No surprise or vexation.
"B-but surely they are not our men, are they?"
A sort of remorse entered the captain's eyes and Ethan wanted to spit at it, to punch him and demand he not look at him as though he knew absolutely nothing. As if he were a born fool, destined to die as one.
"Your Highness, the men who've kidnapped Pyracea's princess are believed to be none other than a member of one of their larger growing zealous cults, led by her own cousin."
"Then why has King Clement not reached the same conclusion? Is it not obvious these men are liars who mean to make a fool of his common sense?"
"King Clement cherishes his children." The captain's eyes did not waver pointedly to King Robert as Ethan would have liked them to do. "And such a love can blind any man."
"My son," his father spoke up. "Values love. My son wishes to be a blind king. So perhaps you may want to choose your words with him lightly, for you see, he is also a delicate lily in the wind who would sooner banish the ice in this land than harvest it in his veins."
"That is not true!"
His father was a raging torrent, a vicious show of bared teeth and power that made him appear no different than the ice leopard sculptures at the foot of the waters. The waters of which Ethan nearly fell into as he recoiled.
"You want safety, you must fight for it. These lands are versatile, hardened, and have been threatened by its neighbors for centuries. In light of such a clear act of war, peace cannot be salvaged!"
"Then you would attack them?" Ethan asked, shaking.
"By my god and goddess, I will exterminate them."
His mouth dropped in horror. "Your age nears, Father..."
And should their family curse take King Robert just after he set off the bells of war, that would make Marianne regent; if their mother perished a meager one to two years following, as the curse was never precise on whether it was age 35 exactly or somewhere near the age, that would make him king.
He hadn't anticipated coming into his rule right in the middle of a war he had no part in starting, yet it appeared his father did not care. Or perhaps...
He glanced down at Alan. Then to Roirii and Rarah.
"Exactly, son," his father said, his voice back to its emotionless ice shards. "The sacrifice of your younger brother will extend my lifetime. I will handle this war and hopefully, when all is done, I will have a blind son no longer."
"What if this sacrifice does not appease them?"
Could he, as he was, protect his homeland from demolition? Pyracea was a fathomless size, nearly equal to that of Redthorn and who was to say the summerlands would come to their aid should Pyracea initiate a full scale attack?
"It will," King Robert ascertained.
"If it doesn't?" he pressed.
His father snatched up his hand and smacked something hard into it. "I am needed elsewhere. At the very least, try to be less of a disappointment."
Only when his father and the captain retreated far up the stairs and he could hear their footsteps no longer, did Ethan glance down into his palm.
The holystone.
His eyes flicked up to Alan, whose lids were slipping open and closed in varied states of consciousness. His breaths rapid. His skin pallid, lips bluer.
The lesson lies within the pain.
Was this the way of ensuring Thellemere's security? Breaking the darkness reigning over them, securing his own longevity so that he might make a dent in history? He wished to be great and infinite, but did that mean reducing his own blood to something poor and finite?
Ethan bowed his head and assumed the pose of his father. Lips near the smooth face of the stone.
"Un tifi, fourteen."
The board dropped.
~ASTRID~
The pile of cards was stacked neatly with not one out of place upon the small dining table. After dinner they had indulged in some recreation, nothing too heavy or challenging. Merely a game of 'Upstairs or Downstairs?', so it was luck more so than any sort of skill, and yet, she had won as she always did with card games. Most games, really. The activity simply did not suit A'zur in the slightest, even if the objective was to guess whether the opponent had a card higher in value than one's own. The gentle congratulations he had given and the commiserations she had directed were pushed to the back of her mind for there was a much more pressing situation at hand.
The looking glass trembled upon the dresser top as Astrid scrubbed at the surface, or rather, her reflection. Her brows creased at the sight of the blemish, which she certainly hoped was a project of her imagination and was really just a stain upon the glass.
"Gods this cannot be happening!" She grunted through gritted teeth. The red mark upon her left cheek seemed to be accentuated more so than earlier, likely due to her squeezing and pinching, and generally doing all that was advised not to be done with a potential spot.
"A'zur, can you take a look at this?" It was a sign of gluttony, she was sure of it. Too much oil produced upon the skin. She had eaten the meat which was delightfully juicy a few days prior, which was surely the cause. If not, it was simply adolescence, which would only make her stand out as a poxy child rather than a clear-skinned young princess before Redthorn's heir. "A'zur! Come here!"
They'd been traveling for shy of five long, grueling days, having voyaged through the stale white lands of Lorewell and hazardously frigid hills of Moui, ending in a quaint inn north of the borderline disputing Thellemere and Redthorn, but somehow her brother had managed to remain untouched by the cruelty nature had bestowed onto her. For hours he had been sitting in a corner chaise, head bent over the binding of parchments given to him by his secondary advisor before their departure. His face was closed off, eyes dully skimming the same pages he'd been skimming yesterday—and the day before that, and that.
Just then, his head lifted to stare
across at her, response slow in coming. "What concerns you?" This time. He may not have added the ending, but the words incensed the space between them.
Ever since the two had stepped into the carriage, he'd been like this. Quiet around her, and short with her when forced to speak.
Surely she had done something to upset him to have him be so abrupt with her. No padded words of comfort, and while she understood that their mutual grief was likely a contributing factor, she must have done something more. Too overbearing perhaps, too weak on the road. Someone he had to take care of when he wished to enjoy the journey in peace.
Astrid sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, though quickly released when she remembered the possibility of them becoming cracked. Not even lip colour could disguise chapped and broken lips.
Nobody would want to kiss her then.
"I..." She trailed off. This was both a petty and monumental concern. The conflict caused her breathing to quicken and then a mewl of panic to creep through her lips. "I think I have a spot. If I have a spot then Prince Tristian will think me hideous and turn me away. Everyone will stare. I do not know if it is a spot, however. I may have just rested upon the side of the carriage with greater force than I ought to. In which case it may be a bruise and then I will be considered terribly unladylike and Prince Tristian will not want me—oh, I don't know!" She rose from her seat and threw a shawl to conceal the reflected image, as though it would remove it from existence entirely. "I perhaps ate too much. That is why I have this on my face. Perhaps if I do not eat until we are in Redthorn, it might compensate for my gluttony."
She gave one glance towards the door, which had one old lock upon it, and two additional bolts secured in advance for the royal visitors. Half a dozen guards lined outside the door alone, with many more dotted across the corridor, down the stairs, either side of another locked door, not to mention those that stood outside to guards the windows, despite the ivy-covered ten foot walls the innkeeper assured were impregnable. The curtains were drawn, closing the two of them in a bubble of their own security. Or at least she had believed that earlier. Now it was extremely important to double check the fabric closing, or that the door was indeed locked. Spies could be listening after all. Word of her blemish could spread across the land and beyond, even to the ears of Mother.
"Fifteen more days of travel. You suggest starvation." Rare amusement sidled into his eyes, questionably chased with patience. "Perhaps Prince Tristian wants a dead wife?"
Then he tapped those awful, attention-stealing pages in his hand, crossing his legs at the knee. "Come to think of it, I may have read somewhere that he is a necrophiliac." The sarcasm was more glaring than the mark upon her cheek.
Her nose twitched as she resembled a half-startled, half-confused rabbit, and she shook her head frantically. It would be a complication if she was to die and an alliance between Thellemere and Redthorn was no longer a possibility. Furthermore, she could not be the wife and mother she aspired to be if she was dead. It was a rather harsh comment to make to one's sister, which only amounted to greater anxiety, especially when he used terms she did not know nor understand. "I do not know what a necro-, well, what one of those is, but I will not die!"
"Are," he corrected naturally. "What one of those are." It was to be expected of her big brother, of course. The guider, encourager, educator. Bad grammar was never usually an issue, but like when they were children it was always his duty to correct her when she made mistakes. She never usually resented it, but it only added salt to his comment, while he failed to explain what the new term actually meant.
But then he was standing, closing the binding delicately, neatly, and crossing over to her. He walked with easy grace, unsettling even, for all of his movements could be traced back to a diligently rehearsed plan in his mind. A purpose. An intent. Currently, his attention lay solely with her, and he was looking closely to the worried over area on her cheek. She could feel heat rise to the exact place, which surely caused the plush flesh to take on a similar shade of the blemish. It was the least of her concerns when he was so close to her, examining her, inches away from touching her.
He stopped a hair before her, finger rapping light against the belly of the binding. Grey eyes were calculative. "Composure, Astrid. Maintain it at all costs. You're afraid; you're emotional. Cease it, or things will most certainly fall apart. Besides, I meant not to make you fret. I assumed my words would be humourous. I assumed wrong. You're right, you will not die—because I will not allow you to starve yourself. Mother is not here and spies are not lying in wait to see you fail."
Each word came with a drop of wisdom and she felt like a small and fragile vessel cascading down a gentle stream.
And then he reached up, his thumb stroking the area of the blemish. "It is but the two of us, and I say you are beautiful as you are."
The gasp that escaped paled in comparison to how she felt within.
It is but the two of us. Just as it should be. The warmth spread from head to toe, filling her entirely as they were molded as one from the same clay. Parted and then pieced together.
You are beautiful as you are. He said so, so perhaps it was true. The heat in her cheeks increased and a lazy smile was slow to spread across her face. Speechless in wonder and waiting for his next dosage of knowledge and comfort. She basked and bathed in it, and the sensation seeped closer to her core and around her waist. Even between her legs, which felt both primal and peculiar, but it was just how it should be.
A'zur's thumb trailed lower on the curve of her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. His voice lowered, lids growing heavy. "Does that surprise you, Astrid, when I say my little sister is beautiful?"
She was transfixed by his touch and how gentle he was, despite him being so tall and strong in comparison to her weak form. A noise left her lips, forming what was supposed to be 'yes' but it resembled more of a low squeak. Truly, she felt as if she was in a trance and he was spinning the coin before her, urging her to watch and fall deeper.
"I do not think myself to be beautiful and others think me inadequate. Perhaps, big brother, if you say that I am, perhaps I am. Perhaps it is all that matters to me. For I must be if you say so."
"Then you are to cease your foolish glaring contests with the mirror, erase food deprivation from your mind and focus on the task at hand." Like that, he stepped away from her, colder than those sloping white hills in Moui and once again closed off, the cauldron of wisdom and affection and infatuation simmered down to nothing but grey slates.
Gradually she felt her body cease to feel so light, so airy and warm, until she was left standing in the temperature of the room. She imagined this was what it was like to be cold, for she was parted from her favoured source of warmth and harmony.
"The portfolio I've been examining details the prince as a rather irascible and insatiable man." His lip lifted in disgust as he spoke of Prince Tristian. "Not to mention a scum who sleazes and beds anything he can wedge his tool inside. You're a high rise above the women he's encountered, of that I am sure. Your focus will be on maintaining composure and sealing away your awry emotions. Men like this," Another tap to the binding. "care not when women allow their hearts to leak. Are you understanding me, sister?"
Astrid understood him quite clearly. A man who placed his own pleasure before the feelings of others, particularly the woman he was bedding. Self-satisfaction was his primary goal and she wondered how she was to deal with such a person. If he tried to express an interest in her, how would she tackle that puzzle? Allow him to do as he pleased, or refuse him, and threaten her opportunity to be his bride?
"What if he tries to bed me? What I am to do or say?"
Darkness stormed across his gaze. His voice dripped cooler than ice. "Bedding is not the objective, Astrid. You are not to be alone in the vicinity of such a compromising place to begin with."
He hadn't answered either question.
"I know but..." She trailed off and became trapped by her thoughts. There had bee
n rumours in the family a year or two previously of a young lordling who had taken another lord's daughter, without prior arrangement or the agreements of their respective fathers, as his bedfellow. The outcome was predictable and they had wed with her belly strained beneath bindings which attempted to hide the condition the entire congregation was aware of.
What if she could be in that position? Dishonoured certainly, but she would get what she wanted. Her family would get what they wanted. The proper order would be reversed certainly. Not marriage then bedding, but bedding then marriage, but it could be amended at the altar.
A'zur would not like this but it was one of few ways to guarantee success. Failure was an option and her mother had made it quite clear that she would end up with nothing. It was Tristian or no one else. It had to be this way.
She slowed her voice and weaved her words with caution. "What if I were to allow Tristian to bed me and put a child in me. Then he will have to marry me and I will not fail."
For a time, her brother did nothing more than stare at her, and then she saw the moment understanding hit him, for what little colour he had to his complexion drained away. Rather than appear disgruntled, angered or disappointed, he merely looked... stunned. Then his eyes went from her feet, back to her gaze, and again. His lips curved.
Upward.
Astrid expelled a sigh of relief. For a moment she believed he was set to collapse.
He was impressed by her. "Finally thinking like a true cold-hearted Misseldon. I would be lying to say I'm not proud, if not mildly discouraged. But if you were able to draw up such a scheme, I do trust you've also evaluated the stakes, yes? The small chance the male isn't as potent as such an agenda would require. If not that, then the greater chance the king may rebuke such a marriage."
Of course it was natural to consider failure and Astrid knew herself that was what she had been her entire life. She could never please enough, or even at all. In her eyes, that made her a failure. A failure of a girl. A failure of a princess. A failure of a woman.
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 11
