Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  "Let Mama and Beth deal with what?" The voice of the queen crept up. Aside from brief exchanging of pleasantries, Astrid had never engaged in much conversation with her. A quick glance at the feminine head of the table displayed a woman around a decade or so older than her own mother, and with the warm expression of how a mother should look.

  "Getting Astrid some new dresses," Bethan answered. "Tristian thinks he can do it but he doesn't seem to be taking into account the fact that she's pregnant."

  "But he wants to dress her in what is basically a Sirista robe," Rhenan corrected lightly after her. "And he told her she was not to speak at the meal table, and if the urge did arise, she was to bite her tongue as hard as possible. Then, he said if she were to betray this order, he would punish her come nightfall. And then, when I objected to this cruel treatment, telling him the young foal is to give birth to her own young foal and must be treated with the utmost of care, he refused to acknowledge the foal as his own, never mind pay the mother of the unborn foal any respect. Hm. Where was I going with th—"

  Tristian shoved the male. Or tried to before his brother sidestepped it with a smirk as he dropped into one of the seats.

  The king hadn't so much as glanced up from what appeared to be a scroll of parchment. A menu?

  From the expression of ease upon the queen's face it appeared that she was used to the antics of the two princes. She did, however, slide her eyes over to Tristian and cocked a disapproving brow.

  "Clearly he is lying, Mama."

  "Remember your responsibility as a hus-," she caught herself and sighed. He was not her husband yet and they were expecting a child together. It was the wrong way around, the opposite of the respectful way, and yet it was happening and it could still be a very happy time. "As betrothed and father of the child, you have to take good care of her."

  Putting her in the sunroom had not been a good start.

  The conversation had lost Bethan's interest as Astrid caught her swooping to give her father a good morning peck upon the check, which the king seemed to absent-mindedly return, eyes not once lifting from the parchment. When had she ever kissed her own father, aside from kneeling to kiss his ring at ceremonies and other important events? She did not dare touch her father without his permission.

  "Grapefruit?" she heard Bethan pipe up to her father and seated brother, while the queen's eyes remained fixed on Tristian.

  "Yes, Tristian?" Queen Petra urged.

  King Gregor tapped the parchment, gaze intensely focused if not slightly squinted. "A whole entire list of grapefruit, and as you like, I had them to make it ripe, but by God, why the various options of sugars..?" He peered over the menu and his eyes found Tristian's at once. "Answer your mother."

  She could practically feel the way in which he bristled beneath the cover of his attire. A servant came by to pull out the chairs for the both of them, and the prince's glower alone sent them away, his own hands hooking on the wingback seat and sliding it out for her. "I have been treating her as well as I can, Mama. Is that not right, Astrid? Tell her how fond you are of the room you are currently presiding."

  The invitation to speak came as a surprise and she knew she could not lie to him, even if it meant lying to the others, especially the king and queen. Her mouth turned impossibly dry and she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

  "Prince Tristian has been very kind to me and Prince Tristian has put me up in a lovely room where I am not in want of a single thing because Prince Tristian always makes sure that I have everything I need and even my dresses Prince Tristian is to attend to and Prince Tristian will make the very best choices for me."

  She spoke so fast that she was thankful that the chair caught her stumbling due to her lack of breath, but when she gazed up to ensure she'd been good and said all of the right things, she found them all staring at her, even the king who'd managed to set down the menu.

  "I-I.. she's... she's being cared for. That's what matters." Was that Prince Tristian, he who'd ordered her not to stammer at the table and embarrass him? As he dropped down into the seat beside her, his posture was rigid, his face peculiarly blank, even as he asked, "When is Jocelyn set to arrive?"

  "She'll arrive for the wedding," the queen began, "whenever that may be. Soon though."

  "Excited to see her, Tris?" Bethan questioned.

  The death glare was his answer.

  Perhaps Astrid herself shared the same sentiment towards the other sister.

  "You can write and tell her, Tristian," the queen informed him. "It needs to come from you."

  "It does not. There is no need to force this bonding, Mama, as it's much too late at my twenty-seven years. Let her be the last to hear, for all I care."

  The queen merely shot him a look, sharp and perhaps daring him to challenge her again. "Who will write the letter, Tristian?"

  The prince's face set and it appeared a silent war waged between them as they stared. But then he glanced away in such a manner it was difficult to consider it defeat. "Is it not enough that I must speak to the Sirista on the matter? Now I must send word to that female? Can horses even read?"

  Now he was behaving like Ethan, but even then she imagined her brother would not speak with such malice towards his sisters, even Eleanor.

  "Are you going to show yourself up now, son?" She continued. "Who will write the letter?"

  This stretch of quiet was even longer than the last, his eyes sliding to her briefly, seeming to renew his ire, but at last, his voice hard as granite, he acquiesced, "I will have it done by nightfall."

  But then he was rising to his feet, his eyes flat, tone somehow flatter. "Astrid and I do not wish to eat this meal. Perhaps we'll try for lunch."

  She was not sure she could wait until lunch. How long had it been since she had eaten? Or even had something to drink? Without such necessities as food and water, she would surely suffer and die in this land. Was he trying to kill her? Was he trying to kill their baby?

  "A-actually," she began and she gathered instantly that it was a terrible idea to attempt to speak up.

  Tristian's glare chafed, a frigid shard of ice as he did just as his mother had just done: challenged her to speak otherwise.

  "I-I-I—"

  "Have whatever you want for breakfast, dear," the queen informed her. She wanted her to eat, and that had to mean that Astrid could without being told off. "I will not have anyone around this table going hungry."

  "Which is good, because we are not hungry," said Tristian.

  "She's pregnant. She needs to eat."

  "She is mine! The child is mine! Do not be like Rhenan and think you can determine such things when it is my duty alone."

  "My, my," King Gregor said as he stroked his beard. "Is our son being dramatic again, Petra?"

  "Do you think we will get the good seats when he's performing at the riverside theatre?" the queen replied and Astrid was sure there was some secret joke here, which was peculiar as parents never joked in the company of their children, at least her own did not. "Or perhaps he's going to be a cook. What are you going to give her for her breakfast Tristian?"

  But Tristian was slightly shaking beside her, his eyes unblinking as he stared across the table at his mother, his mouth a straight, inscrutable line. Colour had risen to his cheeks and despite the quiver of his fists, the rest of him held an eerie stillness.

  The king shook his head, eyes back on the menu. "It is certainly not uncommon for a pregnant woman to be hungry all throughout the day. Both your mother and your sister had these tendencies, so you definitely cannot speak for the little pale-born there."

  The queen nodded. "You speak the truth, husband. My pregnancies with the boys were far worse than the girls. You were expelled from the bed when I was expecting Rhenan because I required all the platters of food to be spread around me. It could well be a sign, you know, that we are to have another grandson."

  The comment made Astrid gasp and she nodded. "Y-yes, Your Grace, they say that in Thellemere too.
It will likely be a boy!"

  "Do not join in their nonsense," Tristian commanded her, but his voice was soft and even. "Tell them you are not hungry."

  That would be lying to a king and queen and that was a wicked thing to do. Her mouth straightened into a line as she attempted to muster a weak smile. The sudden rumble of her stomach answered his question. "A-a little."

  Daftly quiet, he stood and the prince whispered, "Then I hope you enjoy it."

  "Come now, my dear, eat," the queen said. "Avoiding this situation is not going to make it any better."

  No response was given as he started for the door.

  "Please Tristian?"

  She was not sure what compelled her to speak up, for he had been the least kind to her out of his present family. Perhaps because she cared for him and it was because of her that his life had changed unexpectedly in the space of less than a day.

  "Please stay."

  And at this, he stopped. Then murmured, "I'd rather starve."

  "Tristian," his father snapped, just as the trays of fruit were arriving. Just in time to startle the servants.

  The flat toned gold landed on the man. "Father."

  "You will not sulk in this hall. There is food here, and women, and family. Three reasons to leave your depressed shenanigans for another day. Now come, sit, have some breakfast before your first act."

  And with that, he made to leave again.

  Across the table, Gregor swatted Rhenan's hand reaching for a stem of grapes. Bethan reached for the strange half-moon shaped fruit which must have been her grapefruit and frankly bore little resemblance to actual grapes, only to receive a similar swat.

  "Are you going to deny her food and water when she's close to birthing? Is this how you will behave?" The queen called after her son. "We did not raise you to be like this. You know how this sort of behaviour makes me feel."

  Tristian stood there at the doorway, his eyes left to rest on his mother, his hands fisted at his side. Dressed as he was in the elegant down attire, black curls feathered against the white shirt, sun-scorched attention cast this way, it was hard to paint him in an ill light. Even as he did nothing more than stare with a flaming anger at the queen.

  Rhenan let out what may have been intended as an assuaging chuckle, but came out as more a nervous clearing of the throat. "There's always tomorrow's breakfast. Tristian can join us then, right?"

  "A pleasure," came the dead response, his eyes not lifting from his mother's.

  Rhenan cleared his throat once more. "Right, Mama?"

  "He is welcome to join us whenever he pleases, even when he has disappointed me."

  The thought of disappointment or rather disappointing their mother must have been a terribly serious situation, for Astrid caught Bethan stiffen opposite her, all gazes of longing towards the grapefruit vanished.

  There was more exhumed tension. He may have even paled at this revelation and Astrid wondered why it was so that the children were so adverse to their mother's disappointment when the queen was by far kinder than her own mother.

  Prince Tristian then shifted once and glanced at them all in turn before coming to a stop on her. "I would have never let you go hungry. At the very least, I wish you would have given me that much of an image."

  And with that, he left her alone to dine with his family.

  21

  ~ ASTRID ~

  Prince Rhenan had agreed to escort her to Tristian after the meal. They walked with a distance kept between one another, a foot or so if she was to make an assumption. She was glad for the tunnel of air between them, for even with it she could sense how much heat the man generated. A large, hairy man, not unlike the long hair and beards favoured by some in her homeland, who was as warm as the smiles he offered her.

  If only his brother were that way.

  "Do you always have a menu to choose from at mealtimes?" The list had piqued her curiosity, even though she had ordered something as basic as an array of berries. Anything too heavy would have made her tremendously stuffy, even more so than she was already, and of course, there was her figure to worry about. She was quite determined not to become one of those women who became too comfortable once their marriage was arranged and the vows were said. Piling on the pounds because they no longer had a concern for how they looked. She tried not to think of her, but at least the sentiment was shared between mother and daughter.

  Prince Rhenan gave a half-hearted shrug. "Redthorn is a shamelessly voracious kingdom. There's a menu for everything. You need only ask." He led them through the royal apartments, a contrary scene to the apartments back at Thellemere. Here the halls were eerily bright and pristine, windows crafted to the west walls to allow for the risen sun's rays, but rather than cast the typical yellow films, there was a decidedly silver sheen to the light as it refracted off of the mirrors lining the opposite wall.

  "Not that I think you will, seeing as your first experience with one was rather pathetic. Surprised you didn't make my father shed a tear upon looking at your pitiful saucer."

  He used that word to describe the experience of the meal, though he was not directing the term at her directly, was he? Was Prince Rhenan another who thought her to be pathetic? The prospect certainly hurt, for he was a good man to her, but he could well be putting on a mask of kindness and courtesy merely because it was expected of him.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. "I did not wish to offend anyone."

  "So long as my brother is present, I'm afraid that's inevitable. But aside from that horrendous detail, you get on well with the king and queen—the king would have favoured you more if you did not eat but half a grape and call it a meal. And Beth..." He tipped his head back. "She offered clothing advice, so she does not hate you."

  The king and queen did seem to like her, or at least were very good at pretending to enjoy her company. She imagined that they were mighty disappointed deep down, even more so than the queen was with Tristian. She was a family member forced upon them after all, along with a baby that was not yet legitimate and could cause all sorts of problems for them. During the meal she had remembered her manners and had answered their questions well and clearly, she hoped, but the serious matters were danced around. It was always discussion of the weather, or Rhenan's horses, or Bethan informing her father that it is quite a crime to wear stockings with her half-finished shoes, which is how the king referred to her footwear. When questions were directed at Astrid herself, it was about what food she enjoyed at home, or what colours she favoured so things might be made for her.

  "Do you still have it?" he asked her suddenly, drawing her from her recollection. "The hooded stick? Or did my brother relieve you of that as well?" His voice had changed to a sardonic regard, a change of pace from the shallow topics shared over the meal.

  It was a peculiar question, until clarification came. The parasol he had given her when Tristian put her in the sunroom still rested against the wall beside the door. It remained as regarded in the empty room as it had when Tristian was eager for her to follow earlier that morning.

  "He didn't take it from me. Perhaps he forgot about it."

  "Or didn't know about it. Whichever way you look at it, he'll find a way to strip you down slowly, patiently, like a lazing farmer taking a knife to the skin of a rounded, ripe orange. Except, in your case, the skin is your personality, dignity and essence. But, I guess lucky for you, oranges are still rather sweet on the inside, which just goes to show, cutting it in fours is more analogically appropriate." Rhenan beamed, his pace slowing as they reached a chamber which sat between four others, left and right. "Of course, if your skin is tender, you can always ask him to use a duller blade. Same outcome, though. I suppose it's not all bad. Being eviscerated of your essential self, converted into what he deems fit for you. After all, you carry the possible next heir to the throne. We should be happy."

  She wondered at first what he was going on about, before he gradually became all the more clear in his words. The description left her with
a lingering feeling of dread, mild fear, though rather peculiarly, a sense of anticipation. Was she eager for this? If Tristian did intend to change her, to mould her into who he believed she should be, would he make the panic and worry go away? Would he make her more confident, less wicked, more focused on behaving as a lady should?

  "I suppose he has already started sharpening the blades," she stated softly. "I am happy that I am having a child, but it's soured by his father not having a care. I cannot blame him for it must have come as quite the shock." She looked away, for she could not gaze upon the prince when preparing to utter a lie. "I did not ask to conceive."

  Rhenan halted almost instantly, and his eyes were watchful like a preying predator. "Did you ask for any of it?"

  Now she wished she had never lied at all. Perhaps he could smell the air of untruth? A lingering sense of there being a dance of deception which she had led with his brother.

  He abruptly stepped in close to her, form towering, not unkindly. "I'm asking if he asked it of you, or you of him—or did he even ask at all?" His hand twitched at his side, as though wanting to latch onto something.

  She glanced up for but a second before her gaze fell to her side where her clammy hands had begun to tug at her skirt. "Nobody requested anything of the other."

  "You laid with my brother willingly, then?"

  Her eyes widened in shock as her mind drew lines between the events that transpired before and during the time of their lying together. The left eye twitched as she gave a firm shake of her head. She may as well have been in that little room with their sister screeching and tugging at Tristian's hair.

  "He's not a rapist so you can banish that thought immediately."

  The anger bubbling within her, brewing in her chest, head, stomach, and wherever else she usually felt the panic threatened to emerge in a shout loud enough to alert the entire castle of her presence, or at least, it felt like she wanted to be that loud.