Receptions, awards... Upon their return to the palace, His Majesty Edwin bestowed Wellster's highest honors on both Jerisson and Lilian Earton. He would have given them an estate and lands, too, but it didn't feel right with foreign dignitaries. Medals, jewels, and privileges would have to be enough. Both Eartons and their descendants received the right to receive the king's direct justice, no matter the accusation.
Not bad at all, really.
Count Chantaine became a duke, while Leir Olsen, a count.
All nobles who had helped to put down the mutiny got higher titles, and the guards weren't left empty-handed either.
Altres Lort was announced as regent, and Edwin personally laid the Iron Crown on his head.
Such were the royal symbols: the king got a golden crown, while the regent was given an iron one, which resembled a helmet with its top cut off and spikes along its edges.
It was intended to remind the regent that he was only a temporary ruler and that his burden was a heavy one.
Altres accepted the crown with a bow and the ritual phrase, swearing to serve, protect, and surrender the power when the time was right. Nobody doubted his words.
He would do it, and if anyone tried to intervene, they would have only themselves to blame.
A feast, dancing... Lily was so tired she felt she was about to drop down and fall asleep right in the middle of the ballroom. She stepped out onto the balcony.
Jess wanted to follow her but was delayed by someone who had a question for him.
Outside, Lilian rested her head against a cold pillar, letting herself relax.
She was terribly sleepy.
Everything around her was blurry; it wasn't a fainting spell, but the dizzying sensation that made the world seem not quite real.
At first, she didn't even realize that someone was speaking to her.
"It's you! You're that pink cow!"
Her brain having registered the familiar expression, Lily turned and saw the woman who had once been Lady Wells. It wasn't clear what kind of reaction she had expected, but it definitely wasn't that.
The countess was so tired that the floor was shaking beneath her feet.
A cow, a crown...oh, even a crow, for God's sake!
Lily put her index fingers to her head as children were wont to do, imitating horns, and said softly, "Moo!"
Adelaide Wells flinched.
That came as a complete shock.
In truth, she had approached Lily out of anger.
She had also been invited to the royal ball, her husband having brought his new wife to Cardin and the court.
She had tried seducing Jerisson under the orders of Altres Lort, who hadn't expected things to unfold in such a way. Otherwise, he would have sent Lady Wells packing far away from the capital and Count Earton. Still, he forgot.
He was only human.
But that was Jerisson. With Lilian, it was personal.
Adelaide came to her because she was ticked off, full of a dark and nasty feeling: jealousy.
Why?
Why does she have everything while I have nothing?
Why does Lilian Earton have the title of a countess, a handsome husband, love, and respect, and I don't? I deserve it so much more!
I'm prettier, I have longer legs and a slimmer waist, and emeralds look much better on me!
Why are you so unfair, Aldonai?
I hate her!
But as usual, Aldonai didn't answer, while Adelaide could never imagine that the countess hadn't gotten all those gifts for her good looks.
She had worked her butt off, laboring hard with no hope of a reward just to survive, doing what she had to and what she could.
She succeeded, but who said that it came easy for her?
Yet Adelaide hadn't seen it and couldn't understand it. The results, however, were definitely to her liking.
She couldn't do anything to the countess, but at least she could try to spoil her mood. Messing up her hair was out of the question—that might bring hell on Adelaide's own head—but she might turn her against her husband.
Unfortunately, the conversation didn't start off right. Adelaide was used to snide remarks, but mooing?
"Do you know where your husband was last night?" she tried resuming the offensive.
She miscalculated.
Lily slowly advanced on Adelaide.
"Moo, moo, brown cow, have you any milk..."
Her fingers symbolizing horns moved in the twilight of the balcony as she pretended to prepare for a charge.
Adelaide yelped and shot back into the ballroom at the speed of a ballistic missile that was yet to be invented.
Something was clearly off with the countess. What if she was rabid? She might bite!
Lily stopped reciting the nursery rhyme and play-acting a cow, sat down on the floor, and broke into laughter.
Someone softly chuckled, echoing her. Who was it?
She turned around.
Her Highness Lydia was giggling while hiding behind a pillar.
"Eavesdropping isn't nice," Lily berated her.
"I'm a princess."
"Then even more so, Your Highness. You need to say you were simply making inquiries in the interests of the state..."
Lydia stopped putting on airs, sat down next to Lilian, and joined her in laughing.
"You should have seen her bulging eyes!"
"M-moo," Lily drawled.
That triggered another burst of laughter.
"I've never thought it possible to treat them like that..."
"You think they can understand human speech?"
Lydia shook her head.
"Don't they?"
"Of course not. They're rats."
Forgive me, rats. You're cute and smart, and here I go comparing you to courtiers. But Lydia snorted.
"I've never tried mooing at them."
"Maybe you should have."
"I'll remember that."
Lily stood up from the floor and stretched.
"Don't go sitting on the cold floor for too long. We'll have to give birth at some point."
Lydia blushed.
"Umm...err..."
"Maybe I should go pick a fight with my husband while my brains are still in working order."
Lily elegantly strode out from the balcony.
Lydia thought that her friend wouldn't start any fights; maybe she wouldn't even say anything about that incident.
Her musings were interrupted by another shadow breaking away from the pillar. It walked forward a few steps, entered a lit area, and, unfortunately, didn't dissipate, turning out to be Altres Lort.
"Stand up, Your Highness."
Lydia glared at him. She was going to anyway, but...
Have you ever tried standing up from the floor while wearing a long dress? True, the Mariella cut made moving much easier than any other type of dress, but still.
She had to accept his hand, unwilling to get down on all fours.
The princess made a passing note about Lort having long, thin, and strong fingers, while his hand was warm and dry.
"Thank you."
"You’re welcome. So speaking about giving birth, have you decided on the future father?"
Lydia swung at him with her free hand.
Alas, the jester was prepared for that and easily caught her wrist.
"You're starting to form a bad habit, Your Highness: hitting the poor innocent me."
The princess responded by trying to kick him in the knee.
Her silken dancing slippers, however, couldn't hold a candle to peasant clogs; all she achieved was bruising her own toes.
Altres sighed...and kissed her on the mouth.
If anyone entered the balcony, even an entire division of royal guards, they wouldn't have noticed that.
Lydia twitched once, twice, and finally went limp in his strong embrace. Altres kissed her calmly but confidently as if he had every right to, and she gave up.
She did, of course, try to slap him afterward,
but that didn't look convincing in the slightest.
"Stop it, or I'll kiss you again," Altres warned her.
"Do you do it with everyone?" Lydia tried to snap.
She wasn't in the mood for arguing.
Her head was full of pleasant haze, her lips tingled, and she felt warmth spread all over her body.
"Only to those I really like," Altres replied seriously.
"I—"
"I more than like you, Your Highness. But we should discuss this another time in another place."
Lydia tossed her head.
"Have you lost your mind?"
She had intended that phrase to sound disdainful, but instead, it came across as pitiful and uncertain.
Altres gave a deep sigh.
"I guess I must have. But I'll wait before confessing it."
A minute later, Lydia was left alone on the balcony.
She came up to the railing and leaned against it. She needed to calm down before returning into the ballroom.
What foul trickery was that? What was the world coming to? She had never consented to that!
But she had to admit: she really did like Altres Lort.
***
"Mama..."
Lily watched Miranda burst inside the room.
"Mirrie, don't you care that your parents are still asleep?"
"But I'm not!"
"Makes sense," Jerisson grumbled and covered his head with a pillow.
Lily hadn't told him about Adelaide. She had neither the strength for it nor the desire. After returning to their chambers, they collapsed pretty much right where they stood.
Lily wasn't sure, but someone must have helped her to get undressed.
The coronation took a heavy toll on everyone: the day was impossibly difficult. Even prisoners in mines didn't work as hard.
"Mama, can I keep her?"
"Whom?" Lily was slowly waking up to the reality around her.
"Her!"
Lilian felt like covering herself with a pillow as well.
Nope, she hadn't expected such a low trick. Yes, she did make a request, but why so soon?
The story was simple. Olav, whom she had talked to, immediately dropped the whole thing on Gael, who went to see Rutha, and... Well, the Eveers were the people who had a very good idea of what the countess wanted.
And thus, Miranda was standing in front of Lily with a small monkey in her hands. It looked like a marmoset, but Lily couldn't have identified the species even on pain of death.
The monkey was painfully thin and had a collar mark on its neck. It was clutching at Miranda for dear life.
"We'll have to treat you both for ringworm."
"Ringworm?"
"It's a miracle if it only has fleas," Lily chuckled.
Jerisson peeked out from under the pillow.
"What kind of pest is that?"
"Papa!"
Lily sighed and started getting out of bed, which was far from easy, considering that it was twice as wide as she was tall.
"Mirrie, do you realize it's not a toy? It's a living being that requires care, attention, and training..."
"I'll do it! Please let me keep it!"
"Let your father decide."
"You can," Jerisson agreed, not bothering to grasp the details. They had gone to bed just four hours before, and now there were monkeys?
But even alligators wouldn't make him budge. He needed his sleep, dammit!
"Thank you!" Mirrie screamed, rushing in to hug her father, but the wicked stepmother was on the alert.
"First, you need to wash up and get examined. Spreading fleas comes later."
Miranda didn't mind.
Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.
Angelina had always known what her wedding would look like. It would take place in the main temple of Laveri, led by Aldon Roman. His Majesty would personally lead his daughter to the altar, all dressed in blue...or pink...that was complicated: so many colors, so many styles!
And there, he would wait for her. Who would it be, though? Angelina had done her best to picture her groom. The results were usually the same: young, tall, handsome, blue-eyed (why not?), certainly a noble, at least a duke, maybe even a prince...
She had no idea what would happen afterward. A feast? A dance with her husband? Maybe a kiss? It was funny how naive she had been.
Reality turned out to be very different.
As soon as Bran returned, Richard slammed his fist on the table. He couldn't marry them off by the laws of Ativerna, not yet, but that didn't mean his sister would get to live in sin. She would have to marry the Virman way.
The island tradition dictated swearing vows before the face of Fleyna.
Who would be better suited for looking after families and accepting oaths than the goddess of love who joined people's hearts together?
Still, Bran was a priest of Holosh, and priests had to get their deity's blessing to be married. The wedding would have to proceed in the dark god's temple.
Few places were less romantic than that one.
The temple of Holosh was a simple cave. Of course, half of Virman temples were the same, but that one seemed particularly uninviting.
Inside, there was a statue, a few torches, an altar, and a knife lying on it, nothing more.
Nobody was leading Angelina to the altar, either. Bran waited for her there, but she would have to walk the path on her own; such was the rule.
As for the dress, Angelina decided to wear a traditional Virman one, made from thin, unbleached linen with embroidery, plus a shawl that her husband was to remove as part of the ceremony.
Slowly, she moved across the narrow passage.
The walls were rough-hewn, with few torches set upon them. The darkness felt overwhelming, crushing her, making it hard to breathe.
What was that? Voices?
Step back...
Leave...
What are you getting yourself into?
Why would you want that?
The darkness pressed down on her, stifled her, didn't want to let her pass. She wanted to break into a run and leave the cave forever. Sometimes, the ceiling looked dangerously low; at other times, it appeared that she had gotten lost and would have to wander those winding corridors for eternity.
It was scary, but she couldn't leave. She wouldn't. Bran was her beloved; for him, she'd step into a fire, not just some cave.
Her fighting spirit clearly helped, as Angelina made a few more steps, turned around a corner, and was almost blinded by a bright light.
Or maybe it just seemed bright, after the darkness of the cave; in truth, it was just torches, only more of them.
Bran was standing by the altar. Angelina threw him a look and immediately realized that he was wavering. She would have to scold him later.
Angelina had never seen the face of Holosh before. Truly, the hand of the sculptor had been guided by a god. At first sight, it was only a cloaked man who was standing in a casual pose while leaning on his staff. A careless observer might even notice the folds of his cape fluttering behind him only to look closer and realize that it was a stone statue, its shadow playing tricks.
But the face—the face was a different story. Generic features, a high forehead, a thin nose, big eyes, the latter represented by gemstones of some kind. Taken individually, they seemed ordinary and even looked like someone nice, but together...
When you looked at Holosh, you wanted to shiver and hide. How could a human sculptor depict something like that? Indifference, curiosity, the cold ruthlessness of an explorer, and at the same time, understanding. How could all of that coexist in one man?
Although he was no man, he was a god.
It felt scary. Angelina took a step forward, then another.
Her beloved was waiting for her, and she wasn't going to stop. Bran stood at the right side of the altar, seemingly calm, but his blue eyes closely watched her every move. He was no prince charming or a knight in shining armor. He could tell her no tales about chivalr
y or valor. But Bran would be faithful to her for the rest of his days, protecting her, destroying her enemies, loving their children. No, scratch that. Both she and their children would be a part of Bran, just like his arms or legs. He would love them and protect them just as he would himself. He couldn't do otherwise. He would never bring her a hundred scarlet roses from the garden, but as long as he drew breath—and even after that—nobody would dare to look at her askance or even think bad thoughts. Their love wasn't the one from fairy tales, not the romance between Tira and Richard, not even what Lilian Earton had told her about, not what her parents had once had. But everyone had their own story, didn't they? Angelina couldn't have wished for a different one.
The eye of Holosh kept watching her, weighing her down, and the princess knew what she was asked for. Bran was no angel. He was cold and cruel and calculating; he had killed, and he would continue to kill, betray, and scheme. Such was his nature, and she would never strip him of that. One could catch a shark swimming in the ocean, but could it ever become a herring? Never, and she didn't want that anyway. Angelina had known everything from the beginning. Why kick up a fuss?
Another step, two more, and she touched Bran's chilly fingers.
"I love you."
"You're my heart and my life."
It didn't matter who said it first or who replied. It was the truth said before the face of Holosh.
Bran cut his wrist, and blood dripped on the altar, speaking the words of the old vow, then passed the blade to Angelina. The princess hesitated. It felt scary, and she was unused to such things. Yet it was important.
Anxious, she cut a bit deeper than she had to. It would probably leave a scar, but she didn't care. A rivulet of blood poured on the altar once again.
"I swear..."
To love and protect, to believe and preserve, to be faithful and never to betray. The essence of the oath was the same for all people in all eras, and fire obediently accepted the blood and the oath.
Holosh looked pleased. Not by the offering, no. The realization hit Angelina, and she couldn't stay silent.
"Am I...his now, too?"
Bran didn't reply, instead touching her lips with his. The kiss was short, but not any less deep. Then he pulled out a bandage and applied it to his wife's hand. But Angelina had become more than his wife; a small part of her was dedicated to Holosh, and he would watch her.
The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Page 32
