Prince Salesin stayed by her side for as long as was proper, then courteously took his leave and vanished. She glimpsed him several times with friends, drinking and laughing.
She heard him mention “Kata,” then, a few minutes later, “Kerezau.” He was talking about the growing unrest in Kata and the fact that the Chonao Redai, Kerezau, after wintering his forces on Taenareth, was now threatening the Meptalith Islands. Ulandra had heard that the Meptalith had broken off their negotiations with Kerezau. Now they, too, faced conquest.
But all of that seemed far away, too distant to be worth considering. Her feet hurt. Ulandra repressed a grimace. The reception seemed to drag on for hours, and at the same time went by in a rush.
Finally things seemed to be winding down. Her feet throbbing, her bladder uncomfortably full, Ulandra sought out the water closet. It was the first time she had sat down since the carriage ride, the first time she had been alone all day.
After she had relieved herself, she tried to find the strength to rise. Suddenly, without warning, tears overflowed her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks. Hastily she dabbed them off with her handkerchief, mindful of the powder on her cheeks.
When she emerged from the water closet, her lady-in-waiting set her gown to rights again. “I will rejoin the party in a moment,” she said, and deliberately stepped out of her high-heeled slippers. Padding barefoot into the small, adjoining chamber, she paced nervously back and forth, forcing herself to breathe deeply, trying to regain her composure. The chamber had windows. Ulandra saw, with a stab of fear, that the light outside was failing. Soon it would be dark.
Her wedding night …
She swallowed, summoned a smile, pinched her cheeks and lips to give her some semblance of color, then went back out into the reception.
Her high-heeled slippers were now a torment. Ulandra saw that many of the court ladies were dancing with stocking feet, but she did not dare do that. Her wedding slippers were beaded with jade and tiny emeralds, and she dared not lose them.
Finally, after she had danced with Prince Adranan and a number of young noblemen, her husband returned to claim her for several dances. Ulandra felt the strength in his arms, the solidity of his chest. She looked up at him and ventured a smile. Salesin did not see it. He was looking over her head at someone across the room.
Ulandra swallowed dryness. Soon they would be alone togther. What would happen? She knew so little. She had no mother to ask, and it would not be meet to ask one of her maids. Her great-aunt had taken her aside and cautioned her that the marriage bed was something every woman must endure so she could have children. Ulandra felt Salesin’s strength and wondered exactly what it was she was supposed to endure.
She looked up at Salesin again, and this time he was looking at her. Ulandra smiled. “My lord, the ceremony … it went well, I thought. I hope … the King and Queen were pleased?”
He glanced down at her. “My father takes little pleasure in anything these days, my lady. But yes, the ceremony went off smoothly enough. Now it only remains for us to produce several heirs to the throne, and we will have acquitted ourselves well.” He grinned, but again there was no warmth in his eyes.
Ulandra felt the heat in her face, and looked down, unable to think of what to say. What will happen next?
“You’re blushing,” he said, after twirling her and guiding her through an intricate pattern. “Admirable. How maidenly.” He chuckled, and there was a note of anticipation in the sound that made her miss a step.
Ulandra was sorry she had said anything.
Later, much later, though the party was still going, Salesin handed her into the keeping of her ladies. He gave them a smile and a wink. “Don’t fuss too much, ladies. I need my rest.”
The ladies giggled and exchanged knowing glances.
They led her to the official royal bedchamber. It was grand beyond anything she had ever seen. She could not look at the great, gilded bed with its snowy sheets of fine linen.
Ulandra waited, passive, while they removed her gown and her jewelry. She stood there in her voluminous petticoats while they loosened her bodice, then removed it. It was a relief to be able to take a deep breath—but she didn’t seem to be able to do that. The ladies noticed how her heart was beating and giggled.
As they dropped the folds of her pale green nightgown over her head, then began arranging her hair, Ulandra had an impulse to grab their hands and demand, “What will he do to me? What will happen?”
But such a question would be undignified and unseemly.
She sat down on the great bed with its fine white sheets, to allow them to take off her thin silk stockings.
The ladies quickly hung up her clothes, then two of them lifted the coverlets. She slid her icy feet beneath them and sat there, stiff and waxen pale as a doll, until they gently pushed her down onto the pillows. “Lie back, Your Highness. We’ll tell His Highness you are abed.”
The maids and the ladies, exchanging amused glances, bowed themselves out.
Ulandra was alone.
She clasped her hands on her breast and began to pray.
“Lady Goddess, hear my prayer. Make me a good wife. Let me be fruitful, and a good mother. Help me … help me …
to endure.”
Endure what? her mind screamed.
It took all her willpower to lie there quietly when she heard the door in the dressing room click open and footsteps come toward her.
Prince Salesin paused in the dressing room for a long moment. She heard two thumps that were undoubtedly his boots hitting the floor, and the rustle of cloth. For the first time, she realized that wedded intimacies might well involve a lack of clothing. Ulandra had never seen a naked male, and had only the haziest idea of how their anatomy differed from a woman’s. When she’d seen certain works of art that featured naked or nearly naked people, the males had certainly appeared different … down there … but it was improper for a maiden to gaze too closely, so she never had.
Besides, her duenna had always hurried her away from “unsuitable” art and sculpture.
Footsteps again. In the light of the few candles left burning, a shadowed shape filled the doorway. It was the Prince— my husband, she reminded herself. To her vast relief, he was not unclothed. His chest was bare, but he still wore his breeches.
He gave her a slightly tipsy, mocking bow. “Greetings, my lady. We meet again.”
“M-My lord …” Ulandra managed. Her mouth was so dry she could barely get the words out.
“Well met, well met by candlelight,” he said. “Might as
well get this over with. I’ve a busy day before me tomorrow, and the hour grows late.”
“Y-Yes, my lord.” As he moved toward her, Ulandra began to tremble.
She tried not to stare at his wide, bare shoulders, thick with muscle, his chest, matted with hair as black as that on his head.
“You’re shaking, my lady,” he said, and it was plain the honorific was meant to mock her. “That’s right, you’re a virgin,” he sighed. “Bother.”
Going over to a cabinet, he reached into a drawer, took out a small jar.
Then he walked back over to the bed. “Let’s get a look at you,” he said, smiling. He picked up a strand of her long, pale hair, soft and shiny as any silk. “You are a pretty thing, though not to my usual taste.”
Ulandra tried to hold onto the covers, but he pulled them free easily and tossed them off her. He regarded her in her beautiful nightdress, her hair tumbling around her, and nodded. “We ought to be able to manage this, my lady. Just behave yourself and don’t be difficult, eh?”
Difficult? Behave myself?
Ulandra saw him reach for his breeches, start tugging them down, and shut her eyes. She could scarcely breathe.
She tried to pray but could summon no words.
Moments later she could feel the bed sag as he lay down beside her. She could smell the reek of stale sweat from dancing, the strong, sour ale smell of him. His breath was har
sh and hot, and stank of fish and cheese.
He reached down, grabbed the hem of her nightdress and began yanking it up. Ulandra’s eyes popped open and she made a faint sound of protest. “My lord!”
“Relax, my lady,” he said, looming close to her, dark and very warm. She could feel heat spilling off him, as though she lay next to hot coals. “I’ve done this before. Just lie still.”
Ulandra could not just lie there and be naked with him.
She shook her head frantically and struggled slightly, pushing the gown down. “No, wait a moment, please, can’t we … I don’t want—”
“My lady, what you want makes very little difference to me. Very well, be difficult.”
With a move as quick as the one he’d made when he grabbed the falling marriage bracelet, Salesin grabbed the bodice of her nightgown and, with one swift yank, ripped the thin fabric all the way down.
Ulandra’s eyes widened in horror. She made an instinctive gesture to try and roll away from his gaze, but a heavy hand grasped her arm. “Lie still,” he ordered. “Lie still, and let’s get on with this.” He made an exasperated sound. “Goddess, I hate virgins!”
Ulandra gulped, then squeezed her eyes shut and obeyed.
He’s my husband, he’s my husband, he’s my husband, she repeated silently.
Now he was running his free hand over her skin, touching, kneading. His other hand still grasped her arm, keeping her from moving away. “Good,” he grunted. He was breathing harder. “That’s right.”
His hand left off fondling her breasts. She heard him fumble with something … the little container? Then his hand was back, touching her tightly clenched thighs. His hand felt slippery. “Come on, open up,” he said. “Let’s make this as easy as possible …”
Ulandra gasped, trying to do as he bade. His hand was between her thighs now, pushing … pushing at her most secret place! She clenched her teeth, trying not to fight, but she could not make herself move. He solved the problem by swinging one leg over her right one, then yanking her legs apart.
As he did so, Ulandra felt his hand, his big finger, slide upward, into her, until it suddenly stopped. She gasped. It hurt, even though his hand was slippery with some oil.
“Please, my lord, that hurts,” she whimpered.
“Has to be done,” he said, his voice harsh with urgency.
“You want a baby, don’t you?”
“Y-Yes … but … please … not like this … please …”
He gave a short bark of exasperated laughter. “I’m sorry, m’lady, there just isn’t any other way. Now just hold still.”
With one of his quick, pantherlike motions, he rolled atop her. Ulandra felt something large and hard and hot butting at her thigh for a second, then it touched the spot his finger had invaded. “Hold still!” he ordered, and she felt his body gather itself, then he shoved himself into her.
The pain was excruciating. Ulandra’s eyes popped open and, without her willing it, her mouth popped open, a scream welling in her throat—but his hand was there, clamping over her mouth.
“Shut up,” he snarled, his expression so dark and savage that he looked like a wild beast. “Goddess, you’ll bring the guards in here! Lie still!”
He thrust into her, harder this time, and his hand slipped until it was covering both her mouth and nose, smothering her. Ulandra tried to move her head, push at his shoulders, but he was too strong, too heavy. Now he was pushing into her again … then pulling out partway, then another thrust, another …
Ulandra jerked her head, thrashing wildly, and managed to free her nose. She drew breath. That was better … but oh, how the invasion hurt!
He was thrusting harder and faster now, panting. He dropped his head, nuzzled her breasts, then bit her nipple.
More pain. Ulandra closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to watch his face, his mouth, against her skin.
Seconds later he thrust into her so hard that he grunted with the effort, but this time he did not withdraw. Moments later she felt his whole body quiver. He grunted again, and now the sound was soft, filled with pleasure. She felt him relax. A moment later he rolled off her.
“There,” he said. “All done. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
He yanked the covers up over himself and turned away, his back to her.
Ulandra lay there, afraid to move. She didn’t want to disturb him. Perhaps he’ll fall asleep …
He did fall asleep. Within minutes his breathing had steadied, become regular, and then he began to snore lightly.
Only then did Ulandra dare push herself up and look down at her body. Blood streaked her thighs, and the white sheets were as stained as if she had gotten her monthly flux in the middle of the night and never awakened. She moved her legs slightly, and pain answered. She was lying in a sod-den, sticky red mess.
She wanted nothing more than to get up, to leave, to wash all trace of him away. But if she moved, he might awake, and perhaps he would want to do that again.
It was cold in the chamber. The fire had gone out.
Greatly daring, she eased her hand down, managed to tug the blanket up over her.
She did not dare weep aloud, lest it wake Salesin, but tears flowed from her eyes, wetting her tangled hair.
Goddess … please, help me … please …
Ulandra wasn’t even sure what she was praying for. She lay there, exhausted, her body throbbing with pain. If only she could sleep!
But she hurt too much to sleep.
Why did it have to be like that? she wondered. Why didn’t someone tell me?
She knew now that her husband cared nothing for her. To Salesin, she was naught but a means to an heir.
Goddess, is it too much to ask that my husband treat me with some respect, some kindness?
As she lay silently weeping, a face suddenly came into her mind. Prince Eregard, as he’d stood looking down on her, that day in the hall of the palace. There had been more than kindness in his eyes—there had been tenderness. Caring.
Why am I thinking of Prince Eregard? she wondered.
He’s dead. He can’t help me, nobody can help me.
Finally, when there were no more tears in her to weep, Ulandra had a thought. Perhaps he has gotten me with child.
If he has, this will not have to happen again.
She lay awake the rest of that endless night, praying to the Goddess with every fiber of her being. Please, Lady Goddess, let me be with child!
Eregard lay with his face pressed against the sour dirt of the gaol cabin, his back throbbing with every gasping breath. He remembered hearing his father’s judges when they’d sentenced petty thieves and other miscreants to public whippings—five lashes, ten, fifteen, twenty or more. But never, in all that time, had he given even a moment’s thought to the pain those people would soon suffer. Pain … it was beyond pain. Pain was a stomachache, or toothache. Pain was a throbbing head. This was something huge that filled his whole world. He could feel every stroke as a separate line of agony, like fifteen red-hot bars of iron lying pressed against his flesh.
Fifteen lashes …
The Prince had lost track of how long it had been since he stumbled onto the dock in Port Alvar. Midwinter Festival had come and gone. He remembered the day, remembered the decorations that had festooned the entrance to the master’s estate. The master had ordered a side of bacon and a jug of ale to be given to each slave, and they had all had a holi-day from work. Eregard remembered the other slaves cautioning him to save his bacon, portion it out slowly, rather than devour it as he had wanted to. Ye’ll get sick as a poisoned pup, lad, the oldest slave, Malfrey, had told him. Trust me on this. Ye can’t live on greens, fello bean mush, and river-mussel broth for months, then fill up on bacon.
Those bits of greasy, oversalted bacon had tasted as fine as anything he’d ever eaten at his father’s table. He had a sudden, vivid image of those Pelanese royal banquets, the tables groaning with everything from roast peacock to airy meringue concoctions filled
with creamy ices …
Eregard felt tears well up, and gritted his teeth, trying to force them back. Weeping did no good. He’d found that out long ago. His first week at Master Corlena’s estate he’d tried to run away. He’d been caught before nightfall. Master Corlena had not punished him, physically. Instead he’d shown Eregard one of the slaves, the man who worked the bellows in the smithy.
“Frin here ran away, too,” Master Corlena said. “How many times, Frin?”
“Two, Master Corlena,” the red-haired slave had replied, not looking up.
“Come over here and show His Highness what happened to you after the second time, Frin,” the master ordered.
Obediently, the slave crossed the smithy, walking with a painful, lurching gait. He stopped before Eregard, turned around, then leaned over and rolled up the leg of his breeches. A hideous, livid scar ran across the back of his knee. The leg had healed, but it was clear that the man had been deliberately crippled.
Eregard had not tried to run away again.
The little gaol cabin was dim. Not much light filtered through the small barred windows, but he thought it must be almost evening. He must have lain unconscious for an hour or so after they’d taken him down from the whipping post and tossed a bucket of brine across his back. He repressed a shudder at the memory.
Just three mornings ago he’d awakened realizing that spring was well and truly on the way. As he headed for the office to work on Master Corlena’s accounts, he’d actually felt his spirits lift as he felt the mild breeze and the warm sunshine caressing his face. After months of winter, huddling into a tiny cabin and a single bedstead with four other unwed male slaves, nursing a smoky fire to keep warm, the spring weather felt like a benediction.
When he’d arrived in the office, though, he found not only Master Corlena, but Overseer Barlin waiting there, and his spirits had plummeted. The overseer, a big man with swarthy features and lank black hair, had smiled, showing stained and blackened teeth. “G’mornin’, Your Highness. You won’t be needed here today, you’ll be joining us in the fields. We need every hand for the planting, make no mistake.”
Storms of Destiny Page 20
