by Miles Owens
Rhiannon blinked. “What?”
“Nothing keeps skin softer than bathing in ewe’s milk. Your skin’s so creamy and perfect. You use it, don’t you?”
Rhiannon wondered if the girl was an idiot or if this was some game.
“And your hair . . . ” The girl sighed. “I would die for hair like that. My brother is demanding that Father approach Tellan for your hand. We will probably be seeing more of each other.”
The girl smiled wistfully and wandered off. Then a cloyingly sweet perfume filled her nostrils.
“Lady . . . Rhiannon, isn’t it?” Zoe approached in a rustle of rich silk. Jewels sparkled on her ears and encircled her neck, but those sloe eyes were dark and fathomless. She inspected Rhiannon from slippers upwards, then arched an eyebrow when she came to the face.
“Poor girl, you look as if you’ve eaten spoiled mutton. Or perhaps it’s a reaction to some lotion you have rubbed on your calluses. No? Hmm. Well, all of this must be too lavish for one of your simple background.”
Rhiannon’s blood quickened. “I find my background most suitable. We are constantly dealing with predators. Recently, a winged horror thought it could take what was mine.” She gave a cold smile. “I killed it.” Zoe’s mouth dropped open and her face lost some of its beauty. “So you see,” Rhiannon continued, her voice deadly soft, “I stand ready for any challenge.”
Zoe’s haughty expression returned. Her musical accent thickened. “Larien will not forget my impact during the Presentation.”
The dagger tied to Rhiannon’s arm felt like lead. “You will not have him.”
Zoe’s voice became as hard as her glare. “If he chooses anyone tonight, sheepherder, it will be me. If not,” a perfect eyebrow rose meaningfully, “then I will be around when the marriage bed becomes stale.”
A wave of movement came from the far side of the pavilion. An escort of king’s guards emerged from an opening curtain, the Faber banner high on a pole. Next came Queen Cullia, her hand resting on her son’s arm.
Prince Larien took Rhiannon’s breath away. He was the most handsome man in the pavilion. The most handsome man she had ever seen. Tall, lean, gracious. She had sensed an underlying gentleness at the Presentation when he held her hand, which had felt so warm and secure in his.
Will he be gentle tonight if I become his bride?
His scar gave him such a rugged look. She wondered what it would feel like when she ran her fingertips along it.
Attendants came and seated the maidens at their long table. Zoe was placed at one end, Rhiannon on the opposite end.
Larien helped his mother step onto the dais. Even from that distance, Rhiannon could see the richness of her gown, gold threads in the rarest blue black silk. Cullia had a fixed smile on her lined face as she nodded to the gathered nobles. Her hair was fastened in a tight bun under the diamond-encrusted coronet.
Then Lady Ouveau, head high and haughty, stepped up to the platform. A ruby necklace sparkled in the light. She was escorted by Branor, whose limp seemed more pronounced. Sweat beaded the Keeper’s forehead, and Rhiannon could almost feel his nausea. She knew what he sensed.
Looking at those two powerful women, Rhiannon realized why this had to be so sudden, so quick, so public, so protected from interference. Trying to get past Cullia’s prejudice and the evil inside Ouveau would be impossible otherwise.
But what about Larien? Was the knowing they had felt toward one another enough to overcome Zoe’s bewitching impact? After the prayer of binding, could Zoe still affect Larien?
Everyone settled into their seats. Larien’s eyes swept the maiden table, searching. They came closer to where she sat. She waited, hands clammy. Cullia said something to him. He turned to her, listening, then replied. His eyes flicked back exactly where he had left off—and resumed.
They swept by Rhiannon, then whipped back! For a long moment, he looked straight at her. She returned it, hardly daring to breathe. Then he glanced at Zoe on the other end. Finally, he looked down and started drumming his fingers nervously on the table.
For the first time, Rhiannon had an inkling of his dilemma. At the very first of the Presentations, before he’d had the opportunity to meet the other clans’ offerings, he had beheld Zoe—a cultured, exotic temptress, clearly born and bred for a crown. She would bring foreign contracts and wealth untold to the Faber throne, not to mention the envy of every man who met her.
As opposed to a poor Dinari! Worse, a girl from one of the smallest and poorest of the Dinari kinsmen groups! To be joined to such a one for the rest of his life? A callous-handed sheepherder to be princess, queen, mother of the heir?
Lord Baird rose and approached the head table. The crowd hushed. Rhiannon’s pulse quickened.
“Prince Larien Faber,” Baird intoned, “before the Eternal and these witnesses, it is my solemn duty to ask if, after the Presentation of these maidens and your spending the afternoon in prayer and contemplation, the Eternal has made known to you your wife and our next queen.”
Larien did not reply. He gazed at the tabletop, expression closed. The silence stretched. A puzzled buzz began. Rhiannon started to tremble.
Baird cut his eyes to Cullia, then back to Larien. “Prince Larien Faber, has the Eternal made known to you who is to be your wife and the next queen to rule by your side?”
Cullia became very still, then darted a quick look at Zoe. A pleased smile played at the corners of Ouveau’s lips. Rhiannon saw Branor frown. He looked down the table at the prince. The puzzled buzz returned, stronger. Rhiannon’s trembling increased.
Larien came slowly to his feet, and the buzz ceased abruptly. “Yes, Lord Baird,” he said. “The Eternal has shown me my wife and the next queen of the Land.”
Startled gasps came from the crowd. Loud, excited talk swept the pavilion. Zoe sat straighter.
Baird’s mouth dropped open. “Th—then you . . . ” He cleared his throat and lifted a hand toward the crystal vase. “Then you must offer the rose, Your Highness. You must proffer the rose to the one the Eternal has indicated.”
Larien tilted his head in acknowledgment. He walked to the vase and removed the silver rose. Stepping off the platform, he strode formally toward the middle of the maiden table. If he veered right, his path would take him to Zoe. A left turn would take him to Rhiannon.
Zoe’s eyes glowed in triumph as she waited, head held high.
Ouveau watched Larien’s back with an intensity that was frightening. The ruby at her neck sparkled deep red.
Dry-mouthed, Rhiannon’s hand crept toward her sleeve, wondering if she could find the strength to do what she must if Larien turned the wrong way.
The prince continued his slow march toward the table, the rose in his hand. The mouths of the girls sitting in the middle dropped wider with every step, and for a moment Rhiannon wondered if he was coming for one of them.
Larien stopped two paces in front of the table.
The crowd went completely silent. No one spoke or coughed or shuffled feet. Everyone’s gaze rested on the prince and his historic decision.
He turned left.
The world spun. Rhiannon had to grip the edge of the table to remain upright. Trembling from head to toe, she watched him approach. Was this really happening?
Zoe’s face paled. Disbelief and rage twisted her features into an ugly mask.
At the Rogoth table, realization hit Lakenna with the impact of a horse kick. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes bulged. Of course. How better to fulfill it? She shook her head. I have been blind.
She glanced at the royal table and saw Branor seem to put it together as well. He sat there with a look of stunned understanding, nodding over and over.
“Oh, my,” Mererid breathed when Larien neared Rhiannon. “Oh, my dear, sweet girl.” Tellan’s face was unreadable as he watched the future king of the land come to marry his daughter.
Rhiannon’s trembling ceased when Larien stopped before her. She stared up at the most beautiful, loving pair of eyes she had ever seen.
Eyes to spend a lifetime with.
“Lady Rhiannon Rogoth,” Larien said, “before these witnesses I ask you to be my wife and share with me the joys and burdens of ruling the Land and maintaining the Covenant.” He held out the silver rose. “If the Eternal has moved on your heart as he has moved on mine, please return this rose to the vase, and there we will take our vows.” He seemed so steady, calm.
Everything had been preparation of this moment. A rightness infused her from inside out. Rhiannon watched her hand reach out and take the rose. It was heavy, the stem warm from his touch.
Larien gave her a bow. He searched her face and managed to communicate: Together, we can do this. He walked back to the empty vase and turned around, waiting.
Every eye in the pavilion rested on her. The queen’s hawk stare radiated a mother’s disapproval strong enough to wilt a tree. Down the table Zoe had regained her composure and sat straight-backed, jaw muscles clinched. She and Ouveau exchanged looks, and the royal advisor’s ruby pulsed an angry red.
Seeing that, Rhiannon realized with calm certainty that she was entering a contest being played for enormous stakes. Larien had found the strength to go against expectations, maneuverings, and centuries of precedent. Rhiannon understood that her first task as princess was to prove he had not made a mistake.
She came smoothly to her feet, chin high, shoulders square, red tresses gleaming in the lantern light. Holding the silver rose before her she glided toward the royal table, a picture of feminine grace perfected in all those afternoons with Mererid.
Larien and Branor met her at the pedestal. She put the rose back in the vase, amazed that her hand did not tremble. Larien reached up and removed her requin. Though his face was as composed as hers, for the first time she sensed his nervousness. Surprised, she ached to comfort him. Their eyes met, and she knew it was going to be fine. She faced Branor.
The High Lord Keeper gave her a quick smile, full of support and favor. “You’re doing fine, my princess,” he breathed, lips barely moving. Then he started the ceremony.
“The Rite demands that after the rose is given and returned, the statement of vows proceeds with all due dispatch, and is brief. Once the prince and princess return to Faber Castle, a celebration will be held with all the pomp and ceremony such an august event deserves.”
Then Branor regarded her with gravity. “Rhiannon Rogoth, you are about to marry into the Faber dynasty. For twelve centuries the throne has remained separate from the six clans. Though it is understood that love for family and clan cannot be easily relinquished, it is necessary for you to set aside all such ties. Your allegiance will henceforth be to King Balder for as long as he shall live, and then to King Larien for as long as you two shall rule, then to your son, whom we pray will spring forth from your loins.” He paused, then asked. “Are you willing to accept these historic conditions?”
“I am.” Her voice was clear, firm.
Cullia’s feet shifted. Her bright blue eyes seemed to be trying to wedge open Rhiannon’s heart to determine what kind of person was marrying her son. Ouveau’s glare was cold enough to make the night seem warm.
Branor faced Larien. “Larien Faber, heir to the throne, are you a follower of the Eternal?”
“I am.” His voice was rich and steady.
“Are you joining to this woman unencumbered and of your free will?”
“I am.”
Branor turned to Rhiannon. She felt his sense of urgency to get this done before Cullia or Ouveau or any possible calamity could stop it. He knew what was at stake.
“Rhiannon Rogoth, are you a follower of the Eternal?”
“I am.”
“Are you joining to this man unencumbered and of your free will?”
“I am.”
“Join hands.”
Larien took both her hands in his, which were warm and comforting. He gave a quick squeeze. She returned it.
“I, Larien Faber,” he said, repeating the vow after Branor, “take you, Rhiannon Rogoth, for my wife. I promise to forsake all others and love, protect, and provide for you as long as I have breath in my body. This I pledge of my own free will before the Eternal and before these witnesses.”
Then it was her turn. “I, Rhiannon Rogoth, take you, Larien Faber, for my husband. I promise to forsake all others and to love, honor, and care for you as long as I have breath in my body. This I pledge of my own free will before the Eternal and before these witnesses.”
It was done. Larien and Rhiannon. Prince and protectoress. Husband and wife.
EPILOGUE
ELMAR HELPED HARRED down the hallway. Thankfully, the room was on the Bridge’s second floor and not the third. Two flights of stairs had near done him in.
“A bit more,” Elmar grunted, almost carrying him now.
“I’m fine.” His voice sounded far away even to himself.
Harred smelled the oil used to polish wood paneling. Or maybe it was Elmar’s salve on the wounds all over his body. After arriving here after the Wifan-er-Weal, Elmar and Breanna had cleaned him and bandaged his wounds, and Elmar had forced a foul-tasting brew down his throat. He had slept dreamlessly on a pallet in the washroom until half a turn ago when Elmar had shaken him awake and applied fresh salve and new bandages. A lot of bandages. With them and the cloak Elmar had thrown over him, he had on more cloth than if he was fully clothed.
“Here we be.” Elmar braced him against the wall with one hand and quickly opened the door with the other. He slung Harred’s arm over his shoulder, then half-carried, half-dragged him inside and kicked the door shut.
The room was smaller than the one he and Lord Gillaon had stayed in for the wool sale. But it had the essentials: a wardrobe, a washbasin, and a bed. But where was Breanna? Belatedly he noted a dressing panel in the corner of the room. A lacy white robe was draped over it.
It seemed a long way to the bed, but they made it. Elmar removed the cloak and sat Harred on the bed. He grabbed him, put an arm under both legs, and levered him onto the mattress.
“I’m fine,” the far-off voice said. Everything throbbed with pain.
Elmar stepped back and wiped sweat from his brow. “You sure you be up to this?”
“Of course.” His voice didn’t sound so distant all of a sudden. He took two deep breaths. The room became clearer.
Elmar lifted his chin toward the dressing panel. “We talked before I be going down to get you. She be understanding if you just sleep tonight and rest. Then in the morning . . . ”
“I am fine.” Harred focused on his brother-in-law. “I can do this.”
“I know that. But tonight may not be . . . ”
“Tonight.”
Elmar shrugged. He made to go, then hesitated. He bent over and whispered, “Need any advice?”
Harred just stared.
“One thing your sister be really liking—”
Harred growled and pointed to the door.
Elmar grinned. “I be going now,” he said loudly toward the dressing panel. And he did, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Harred sat up against the head of the bed, every muscle complaining, every wound throbbing. He waited, hardly breathing lest some sound cause his bride to delay or lose her nerve.
He thought briefly of Rhiannon. Elmar had told him of her marriage to Prince Larien. An astonishing turn of events—but then Harred remembered the fire in those startling green eyes and decided maybe not. She would become queen and raise the next king. He wished her only happiness. But now it was time to concentrate on the treasure he had found and claimed for his own.
Breanna stepped out from behind the panel. She wore a thin white nightgown. Her black hair was down, long and gleaming in the soft lantern light. She glided toward him with her natural grace. He struggled to sit up further, but she shook her head and quickened her steps. She stopped at the side of the bed and smiled at him, tilting her head in her endearing way. He drunk her in, awed by the moment.
She placed one hand on his bandaged ch
est and gently traced his jaw line with her other. “Even after we spoke in the mountains and I said I would not refuse your suit, I thought I would never see you again.”
He groped for something profound to say. “I could not live without you,” was all that came. The words sprung from the depths of his being, and their truth filled the room.
Her eyes moistened. “I prayed every day for the Eternal’s will to be done. I knew my father would deny your suit. I wanted you to win the Wifan-er-Weal, but I so feared you would not survive. I feared it so much that I almost wanted you to not appear at the Pole.” Breanna searched his face. “You looked so alone standing there.”
“No more alone than you when you grounded your staff. I knew then that we were one. That was all I needed.” Harred took her hand. “You are all I will ever need.”
Breanna climbed into the bed and melted into his arms. With her head resting on his shoulder, her feet came halfway below his knees. After a long luxurious moment, she rolled to her side, propped on an elbow, and gave him a look. “I have never bedded a rhyfelwr before.”
“What!” he spurted, struggling to turn toward her. “Who have you bedded?”
She fought to maintain a solemn expression, but broke into giggles. “No one! Your wife comes to you virginal and pure.” Her eyes danced merrily. “But Mother and I have talked in preparation for the Pole. We read some frank passages in Holy Writ. Within the bond of marriage, the physical love of a man and woman is celebrated as a beautiful gift from the Eternal.” She snuggled back on his chest. “One gift Mother mentioned . . . ”
Her soft lips found his neck and began nibbling upwards. Heaven came down to earth.
Rhiannon awoke, momentarily disoriented. Everything was different. She lay on a much softer bed, under a thicker wool blanket. A body radiated warmth against her side.
It all came flooding back then. She was in the prince’s—and princess’s—pavilion.
She turned her head. Enough early morning light filtered through the top to see Larien’s features. He slept belly down, face slack on the pillow, hair tousled.
