Ethan coughed briefly around a meal he hadn't let go to waste, seeming to shiver back into the scene only to shake his head slightly and say without conviction, "I've no part in this."
Her father did not reciprocate the anger, merely sat back and finally remembered she did in fact exist, but his eyes were pitying. "You assert your intelligence in all of the wrong places. If I do live long enough to see the acclaimed alliance, I will also witness my daughter's ruin. What a shame you are too dense to draw the proper conclusions."
He saw it as her ruin, Astrid saw it as her making. She would be ruined if she did not have the Prince's child growing in her belly. She would marry a lord who offered the family no promising alliances save a stronger loyalty to a crown he ought to already be sworn whole-heartedly to.
She sighed, though had lost the interest in attempting to argue. "Prince Tristian will have me."
"So you keep saying," her mother interjected.
"I do. I am sure of it. He said I was like an angel."
"Men say plenty of things to get what they want. You had best pray this pays off." She slid her gaze to her eldest son and shook her head in what Astrid assumed was disappointment. "I expected better of you, but it is done."
"Has been for some time," her father stated and he too had a look of disappointment and maybe even a glimpse sadness to his eyes. "All of you are excused. All of you, out of my sight."
This time when her brother gave the slightest tug, she did not resist.
18
~ ASTRID ~
Thornhall, Redthorn
15 days later...
"This is highly irregular," the curt voice of what she assumed to be a high-ranking official, perhaps a steward, transcended from one of the side rooms to the corridor in which she sat. "Quite the calamity this has caused and not a single member of the family has been informed."
A calamity. A problem. She had caused a problem. Already.
The journey from Thellemere to Redthorn had been shy of unbearable. The first time, she'd had her dear brother A'zur to accompany her and sooth over her worries with his readily accessible logic. But this time, when she'd gotten into a panic and fritz over hypothetical troubles, she'd had only her penny man to keep her company—a doll said to hold the protective spirits of Thellemere's brave, deceased Regiment soldiers.
How long had she been here? Not even an hour, for her arrival was hurried and hushed. Back entrances and side doors, glances from servants who were not quite ready to have her arrival announced. All the time she had sweated and swallowed down anxious lumps, then had sweated again even as she passed through a cooler breeze.
She was melting.
And her dress was growing tight around her growing form.
The material of her skirt was tugged at and had she not been under the eyes of her guards, or their guards, or whatever spies or devious critters resided in the fine wooden walls, she would have tore it off, along with everything else. One of her men had held a flask to her lips earlier and encouraged her to drink deep. The water was warm and scorched her throat, though it had been in the flask for barely a few minutes.
Perhaps this heat was not Redthorn at all. It was hell. The fire lapped at her skin, prickled her pores and made her eyes foggy. She feared she could not stand without swaying. Perhaps her legs were melting too. Perhaps her body would burn and the ice would turn to water, then the water would boil and evaporate until nothing was left of her but her shame and failure in securing the final portion of her plan.
Drifting through the air for all eternity, not as a snowflake but as a nothing. A foolish nothing.
She gasped at the horror of it all.
"I'm going in. This is quite enough," one of her men stated to the other. "Leaving her out here like this. She's a princess, not some naughty schoolgirl."
Naughty. A word she loathed immensely, especially from the mouth of a stranger who had apparently seen her misbehave. A'zur could say it, and she was sure on most occasions she would excuse her other siblings, even Ethan, if they called her it. Playfully they would utter the word, and she was not entirely ignorant that some words could be said in different ways. They would not punish her as her mother did when she called her naughty.
She did not intend her hands to clamp over her ears as hard as they did. Her fingers folded her ears forward, concealing the opening as if that would stop any bad words seeping through.
She would get told off enough by people today anyway. An unexpected visitor. Unexpected meant unwanted. A bad surprise. She was never a nice surprise.
Despite her efforts, and truly she was pressing hard for her nails dug into the thin flesh so furiously she was sure they would poke through the other side, she could still hear what was being said.
"I do not think storming in there would help us in the long run," came another voice. "We were urged to be diplomatic about this."
"Who urged such a thing?"
"The queen herself. Speaking of the matter so freely may hinder our credibility."
They spoke of 'us' and 'our', but it only really concerned her and the baby. At least on Thellemere's end. These men would return home and would roll up their sleeves to catch the summer sun. A gentle heat to brown their arms and catch their faces as they strolled through the tundra. Though the nights would still grow cool and they could return to their homes for warm stew, piled high with summer vegetables. They would drink cool ale from the keg as they warmed apples and blackberries on an outdoor fire.
She was to be left her, to lay in the bed she had made for herself. The news would be broken to the royal family, Prince Tristian included, and she would be one of them. He was kind to her and the queen had told her that her dress and hair was pretty. The others may not have liked her, nor held any significant opinion of her, but she would win them over. They would be happy about this baby, just as she was.
Wasn't she?
And yet, her mother's title had travelled with them. It had dictated how the travelling party was to act, how fast they were to travel, how she was to be treated. Solitary confinement throughout the day, with the woman that travelled with them to prepare her in the mornings and the evenings. There was no one to hold her hair nor rub her back when she was sick. No kind words from her brother as he wiped at her brow.
He would suffer in this heat too, but he would take good care of her. Just as he always did.
She finally settled her hands in her lap and allowed her fingers to graze her growing belly. It was the only part of her she wished to be warm, for the child had to be used to the heat due to the origins of his father. Inwardly, she told her baby that all was well, and that she would take good care of things here for both of them. She could have mentioned his rights as a prince of this kingdom, but she refrained from doing so. Her baby did not care about that. No, her baby cared about being warm, safe and healthy. And loved.
Gods, did she love her child.
"Did your queen send word?" The sharp tone of the official addressed the guard. He had emerged from his room and she stiffened. A pate glistened with minute droplets of sweat where a head of hair ought to have been, though the thick caterpillar brows and moustache sprouting from beneath his hooked nose seemed to compensate. It was a face she could not trust, and she did not say that just because he was ugly. She could note in his beady eyes that he hated her, that he suspected her of doing wrong when she was really a good girl who had done her duty.
"Yes, Sir. She urged that the matter is dealt with in a diplomatic fashion."
How polite her men were, but those were just proper manners. Thellemere brought up some good sons and daughters, like herself, for instance. She was well-mannered and good. It was why she was here now, to do her duty.
"A diplomatic fashion yet I see no diplomatics. Merely a pack of soldiers of the winterlands, a maid servant, and one of your princesses."
The guard who had wished to intrude on the meeting stepped forward. She supposed that she liked him the most, for he was keen to get mat
ters moving and he had the most kindly face. The face of a father or grandfather, though she had known neither of her parents' fathers or a good father herself. Prince Tristian would be different though, when it came to their baby.
"The Princess Astrid, second born of King Robert and Queen Marianne of Thel—"
The ugly man scoffed and waved a hand in dismissal. That was not something that people did when in the company of good girls. Good girls were praised and congratulated, though come to think of it, words of congratulation had not yet been directed at her by anyone.
"I know who she is. Your queen wished for this matter to be handled with diplomacy, but I see not a soul fit amongst your company to deal with whatever you have come to speak with my king about."
She was not diplomatic, merely polite. She remembered that Redthorn's customs were peculiar. Royals did not bow to other royals, regardless of what land they hailed from. She would not curtsey to King Gregor just as she would have done her own father. A sweet smile would do, perhaps an incline of the head. She knew no fancy politics, but she knew honesty, and she would be truthful and good from now on. Prince Tristian would be happy to see her and he would thank her for this.
To consider the opposite would only make dreadful outcomes more likely to happen.
She felt her panic rising again.
The penny man was a light weight against her left hip and she clutched it with all she had. The tan leather pouch in which he rested was dangled from a strap secured across her right shoulder. There he would be safe from the dirt of the floor, especially when the land was perilous for him and now his own. The sheepskin of the interior would protect him from bumps and bruises. Usually the pouch rested against her belly, but she feared it would only hint too blatantly at her pregnancy. It was wise to flaunt it only once Tristian and his family had been made aware.
"I will speak with your king, Sir," she spoke up finally and was surprised at how weak her voice sounded. It was important to remain strong and assertive, though never in a manner that might come across as over-confident. The feeble crack of her voice, which she prayed was due to her thirst for a cool beverage and not her nerves emerging, not the hint of an illness that had yet to make itself more apparent all over her body.
The man appeared to think it amusing when he crouched down and rested his hands against his knees. He remained a distance away from her, which she was very glad for.
"I am not sure how things work in your land—"
Her guards shuffled closer, though he seemed unphased. The quickening of her heart along with the sensible and clever thoughts in her head told her that she ought to fear him, but she felt too consumed by her nerves to allow those emotions to take over.
Many years ago she had learned that people could be made to feel uncomfortable, or perhaps slightly warned, by the widening of her eyes. She had practiced in the mirror a number of times and felt scared herself when the imperfect monster formed in the reflection. Although she had never been close to a snow leopard before, she imagined it was what they did when faced with insignificant prey.
If only this man was unimportant.
After a look around at her men and then at his own who had suddenly assembled at the far end of the narrow corridor, he continued. "In Redthorn the king is very busy throughout the day. Presently he is holding a most important meeting with the Prince Tris—"
"I must see him!"
Someone with the Thornston accent, the rich rolling tones, stating the name of the prince reminded her of the urgency. He had to know about his baby before the swelling turned into a shifting rounded shape. Undeniable and unmistakable.
She wished to be relatively slim and pretty on her wedding day.
"Many people want to see Prince Tristian but I am afraid they have to wait."
"But I can't!"
He would understand how important this was if he was aware of all the details, but it was unfair for anyone else to know before Tristian himself. If she had to tell him in the company of his father, then so be it.
The man raised his brows as though amused. "I suppose we'll just have to see—"
"That will not be necessary."
All heads turned to the entrance.
She knew that voice. Had last heard it when in a state of panic and shame as she hurried to cover her exposed body whilst praying her plan would not be tarnished by the brutish man.
Prince Rhenan leaned against the side wall of the sunlit corridor, and were it not for the consuming and defying amount of black attire and peculiar weapons draped to his person, she would have easily mistaken him for the prince she so urgently needed to speak with.
"Princess Astrid," he greeted with a chastened smile, arms and ankles crossing. "A pleasure to see you again. Fully dressed this time. Overly so, I would say. Are my father's guards attempting to have you turned into a puddle?"
She detected humour and she was certain he was making fun. Her attire was for summer, the gown light and comfortable with slashed sleeves that joined in a cuff at her wrists. Did he not know appropriate summer styles? He had to think she was a joke and that concerned her for what if Tristian and his father laughed in her face? What if they did not believe her?
"I'm not a puddle," her words emerged with a slight slur. Now he might think she was drunk and that was terribly irresponsible, not to mention naughty. She was a good girl after all. She had to keep telling herself that she was a good girl and anyone who thought otherwise must need their heads seeing too. "Not a puddle."
The guard who had urged for diplomacy stepped forward and bowed his head to the prince. "Your Highness. Our princess has travelled far and I fear she may have taken ill—"
"No!" Her hands went to her ears again, for she was as well as could be. It was said agreed that the heat was a little much. As she pinched at her ears she recalled the company and slid her gaze to stare at Prince Rhenan. The pouch shifted too, as did the penny man, and she remembered what was within. "Oh!"
She came to her feet and cringed at the sweat which travelled down her legs. Slick and itchy, not at all comfortable.
She fiddled around in her pouch and retrieved the letter. It had been a pinch, then a stab, then a tear at her heart, seeing her big brother's lovely hand upon the folded parchment. She wondered if it carried his scent and would have sniffed it there and then, though she had to remember that the message was not for her, but for the prince before her.
"My big brother sent this." She offered him the letter with a gentle smile, for even though she was in pain, both of the body and the heart, she had to be polite. "For you."
What if there were patches of sweat beneath her arms?
"Please take it."
The prince didn't move from his leaned pose, just as he appeared mildly disinterested in the words of the guards and the letter in her hand. Though he did endeavor to speak, watching her with an unsettling closeness. "Did he say to you what the matter concerned?"
"N-no." Her hand was trembling now and she wished he would just take it from her. Not only would she have done the job her big brother trusted only her to do, but she would be free to put her arms by her side. Just in case.
"He just asked me to give it to you and said it was important, but he knew that I have something important to talk about too." She exhaled so deeply that a wayward curl escaped from the braid in which Greta had arranged then pinned in a pile at the top of her head so her neck may be kept as cool as possible, bounced beside her cheek. "With your brother."
He peeled from the wall then and without further due course, two fingers plucked to parchment from her, just as he stuffed it carelessly into his breast pocket.
Then, with no further adieu, he simply turned on his heels and beckoned her to follow with two fingers.
~ TRISTIAN ~
"Yes, but why is it I have to attend?" Tristian wondered for the fourth time. "Is it not Rhenan who carries out these senseless ventures?"
King Gregor glanced up from his work station—a platform replicate
d to convey Redthorn's map and coastlines, the maker having gone as far as to carve into the wood and fill the Oreum Sea with water and tiny, exquisite renditions of warships and apparently festivity ships. "Senseless ventures?"
Tristian leaned back in his chair and could not help but sigh. "An excursion to promote the welfare of sailors across the ocean and seas. You argue this will ascertain trade with the Westland Kingdom, convince them to trade with you their coveted tree silk—but Father, you sent warships to their lands. I highly doubt sending more ships, even under the claim of merchantry, will appendage the damage."
Gregor had since abandoned the idea of clipping his beard, where already grey had become the dominant shade, his eyes having gained laugh lines, properly due to his reckless profligacy and careless heart. He smiled across his study. "That is why I am sending you. You, son, will sail to the Westlands. You will show them how serious this matter is."
"This matter of tree silk," Tristian said blandly.
"This matter of tree silk, indeed, and you will go bearing gifts for all."
"Need I remind you I have a wedding approaching in just under two moons?" Not that Tristian considered the idea of ever stepping on a ship, even for a second. Perhaps Rhenan could do so in his place, seeing as to how his brother enjoyed posing as him so often.
His father gave the notion a dismissive gesture. "The girl can wait."
"The Sirista will not wait for this." Tristian would not wait for this. Their union had been preordained for nigh of sixteen years. While it argued two more moons would be inconsequential, there was the matter of the people, who had already invested their time and money to see it happen. Schedules could not be rearranged simply because the king wanted his tree silk.
Gregor was shaking his head, dropping into his own chair before the diorama. "It has to be soon. You will set sail soon. See all there is, son. What lies beyond the Three Great Kingdoms."
"Have you spoken with Mama about this?"
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 27
