A marriage no one wanted, not even my father, who demanded it. Peace without war, my father said. You know my criteria for your marriage.
“I tried keeping Broughton’s nickname from you, Ly’Tana.”
“I know. I still hear things.”
Kel’Ratan lifted a brow in silent query, inviting an explanation. For a moment I paused, glancing about the crowded hall. As the court nobles circulated throughout the room, gathered for Broughton’s birthday celebrations, I observed the lightning glances of hate, the fingering of dinner knives as though wishing the hands touched sword hilts instead. Angry eyes, sly expressions, lips thinned to fine white lines, men connived against the throne and each other. In tight circles, women sneered at one another from behind tiny social smiles and raised hands. Prince Broughton’s six brothers ranged themselves against the wall farthest from the thrones, their heads bent close to one another as they whispered. Whispered of what, I wondered. Treachery…
High King Lionel sat his throne and watched with avid eyes the throng below the dais. A small, self-satisfied smile played about his thin lips as he, in his turn, observed his subjects weaving their plots. Servants, advisors and priests huddled about the dais, waiting for the slightest command from the royal lips. Queen Iyumi sat ramrod straight on her throne, her eyes also watching the crowded hall below, but with the baffled, half-frightened eyes of a doe caught in the hunter’s snare.
The noise of the people within the hot, packed hall, their voices gossiping, maligning and machinating against one another drowned out the musicians strumming lutes and singing soft songs as they circulated amongst the sweating courtiers. I could have spoken aloud and still not be heard by anyone within a rod of me.
Nonetheless, I lowered my voice. “Surely you’ve heard the same stories I have. Broughton did not earn the nickname Brutal in the political arena. He prefers violence in his bed and his victims don’t usually survive the night.”
Kel’Ratan, no stranger to court intrigue, glanced casually around before replying, his lips barely moving. “I heard that too. Slaves, women, or even men, any who have crossed him in some way, wind up tortured and raped…or worse, if there is such.”
I smiled demurely into my hanap. “He’s an equal opportunity sadist, that one. Men, women, children, even a few farm animals thrown in for good measure, meet a very nasty fate in his bedroom.”
“I heard that Lionel’s grandfather was a lunatic, ordering mass executions for crimes no one committed. That is just one rumor; there are scores more. His sire was quieter, kept his madness inside. Lionel is not too bad, as insanity goes, but Brutal—”
I bent, fussing with my gown. “Should I survive my wedding night, I wonder?”
“He would not dare—”
Kel’Ratan’s tight, angry voice raised louder than he intended garnered a few sharp stares as conversations lapsed. He hastily, and expertly, rearranged the hostility in his expression to one of stony neutrality, and looked around. The curious faces turned toward us rapidly changed direction after encountering his fierce blue eyes.
Voice lowered to a quiet growl, he repeated more slowly. “He would not dare the wrath of your father and the might of all Kel’Halla. Should he slay you he risks a war not seen for ages, a war that would annihilate both Kel’Halla and his precious Federation. Not even he would be foolish enough to risk that.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps you are right. I will merely be a night’s rather boring entertainment before he returns to his sadistic pursuits.”
He started to scowl, but then Kel’Ratan stopped, his blue eyes worried. “Ly’Tana, think of your children.”
His words stopped me cold. I could give birth to a madman. Should I survive my marriage, my son might be a High King with no conscience, no moral code, no qualms about causing grief or death or pain. Insanity is hereditary; how could I have forgotten that little tidbit? I should have thought of this long before this moment. How stupid have I been? Lady Nephrotiti, I pray, please forbid this.
“I have already sent word to your father, begging him to cease in this madness and call you home.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is no place for you, Ly’Tana.” His eyes grave, he sipped at his wine chalice. “You could fall prey to his viciousness. Peace isn’t worth having if Kel’Halla loses you.”
Affronted that Kel’Ratan would sneak behind my back, I stiffened. “I can take care of myself.”
“On any battlefield or tavern brawl, I agree. Against a madman on the Khalid throne? Ly’Tana, we have kept the Federates out of Kel’Halla for thirty years. We will keep fighting them.”
“I have no choice, as you very well know,” I snapped. “Not since Father issued that bloody decree.”
Kel’Ratan blew out a gust of breath, a deep sigh that fluttered his mustache. “The Crown Prince is the only heir that meets his criteria,” he said.
“What about the King of Arcadia’s heir?”
He smiled gently. “Girl, do you really want to marry a six-year-old?”
I snorted. “A six-year-old would be hard pressed to murder me.”
The crowd parted enough for me to study Prince Broughton as he chatted with his circle of butt-kissing cronies. Brown-haired and brown-eyed with a thin wispy beard, he looked innocuous and clerkly. Dressed in a gold tunic trimmed in scarlet, with a light cloak of the same gold trimmed cloth that draped him to his knees, he looked not at all the savage man who earned the nickname of Brutal. Not much taller than I, he weighed probably less, for he was thin almost to the point of emaciation. Tonight, a prince’s circlet crowned his head, and if the dagger he needed to cut his meat was twice as long as any other, who would protest?
His eyes caught mine from across the hall and he smiled, raising his cup in a salute. I smiled and offered a slight, though respectful, curtsey, observing the spark of madness deep within his eyes even from that distance. Kel’Ratan was right, I thought. There must be other avenues to peace between our nations. How would my death benefit my homeland and my father if I died at the hands of my own husband?
Drinking the last of the fruity wine in my chalice, I licked the last drop off my lip. I cast about for a servant or a slave for a refill, but saw none nearby. Only the aristocratic merrymakers and the still circulating musicians strolled within my immediate vicinity.
“Here,” Kel’Ratan said, taking the light cup from me. “I see a slave over there.” He jerked his chin toward the cluster of royal brothers. “I’ll fetch you another.”
“My thanks,” I replied, a little surprised at his courtesy.
He eyed me with some humor, his mustache bristling. “I know how badly you need your drink, young lush.”
“Bloody boor,” I grumbled, but the teasing blue twinkle in his eye forced a laugh from me.
Khalidian aristocrats parted the way for him, melting out of his path, as though fearing he might turn on them. They eyed him sidelong, as though he were not royalty in his own right, but a rapid and vicious cur. I knew these people called us “barbarians,” and feared us more than a little. To see them behave in such a fashion in a civilized setting as the great hall beneath the noses of High King Lionel and his Queen Iyumi burned me more than a little. I turned away to keep myself from screaming invectives at them.
Without warning, a nobleman pushed rudely past me, striking me hard with his shoulder. From the tail of my eye, I saw gray silk trimmed in silver. I might have kept my balance and my royal dignity had I been wearing anything but the simple dress. In the wild attempt to keep to my feet, I stepped on the hem of my gown. If I fell, sprawling in a most undignified fashion, I would be humiliated before the entire court. If I kept my feet, and remained stoically upright, it meant tearing the flimsy dress from my shoulders, leaving me utterly naked, and shamed in the eyes of the High King and Queen. It appeared Lord Colvin would have his petty revenge, by one method or another.
Starting to fall, I felt my arm gripped tight above the elbow, blissfully saving me from the
disparaging choice of either a disgraceful headlong tumble or total nudity.
The hand, strong but gentle, steadied me until I gained my feet and my wits about me. I turned to thank my benefactor, words already in my throat—until I looked up into the most incredible eyes I have ever seen.
My words died stillborn. Like the sun on ice, the eyes were a pale, an almost translucent, gray. Long lashes any woman would murder to obtain framed those light irises ringed eerily in black. His black pupils looked as though they peered through a hangman’s noose.
Once, long ago, I saw a shark pulled out of the surf by a fisherman, its eyes black, wide and staring, lifeless and yet alive, predatory and chilling. Like that shark, these eyes lacked anything that resembled human consciousness or emotion. I, a warrior from birth, have stared into death’s eyes without flinching, have killed men who would have killed me, led men into battle with a warcry on my lips. Never before have I seen eyes as cold-blooded as these eyes. I caught my breath against the icy ruthlessness in them. Killer’s eyes, flat and inhuman. Mesmerized, I looked long into those merciless eyes, feeling the chill of fear creep down my spine.
Suddenly the iciness in them vanished. Warmth and humor appeared as if by sorcery. None of his facial muscles flexed, his lips failed to smile, his cheeks remained rock hard and smooth. Yet, curiously, kindness and sympathy gleamed from those sinister eyes as though he had smiled broadly. Then he winked. The lightning-fast wink of a man who looked at a woman and liked what he saw.
I gaped. He had winked. He dared to wink at Her Royal Exalted Highness, Princess Ly’Tana, only child of King Gareth, and heir to the throne of mighty Kel’Halla. He winked at me as though I were any tavern slut. I drew myself up to vent my feminine fury into his smiling eyes—
“Move on, Wolf,” said someone behind him.
The chill returned to his eyes like a veil hiding the sun and he turned away. Only then did I see the leather collar studded with jewels around his neck.
I watched him move away, flanked by two handlers. Nobles and hangers-on parted to make way for him, most watching and talking about him with open admiration. Those appeared to be the hangers-on, the lower classes, the commoners. A few of the aristocracy also commented on him in low voices, as though they discussed a high-blooded horse. Yet most of the nobles present looked through him as though he were not even there. A slave was beneath their notice, even a slave as high-ranking as this one appeared to be.
Their royal Majesties paid scant attention. Brutal himself had not noticed his arrival. Strangely, Brutal’s brothers watched the slave with a dreadful fascination. Six pairs of eyes riveted upon the slave as though they gazed at an oracle. I found this interesting, and filed the information away. Royalty regarding a mere slave as dangerous…well, now, who knew where that tidbit might lead? Reluctantly, I turned my gaze back toward the slave.
He wore nothing save a short leather kilt around his hips and soft knee-high leather boots. Dozens upon dozens of scars racked his back, his torso and his legs—scars from whip, sword, dagger and goddess knew what else. I made a half-intelligent guess that this fellow was a gladiator of some repute.
His skin, tanned a dark brown by the sun, bulged with more muscles than I had ever seen before on a human being. More brawn than brain, I thought, but quickly remembered the spark of sharp intelligence deep in the depths of those pale, cold eyes. I forced myself to reconsider, to reevaluate what I had seen. Perhaps I was in error. Perhaps he truly was a man whom others should fear. I pondered once more the royal brothers’ unusual and poignant dread of him. What had they to fear from a common slave? There had to be more than I was seeing. I remembered my own chill of fear after looking into those dreadful eyes for one instant.
“Isn’t he magnificent?” Brutal said in my ear.
I started in surprise and then remembered my manners. I dipped low into a deep curtsey. “I suppose, Your Highness.”
The gladiator arrived at the wall near the door, his two guards beside him. He stood silent, eyes forward yet unseeing, hands behind his back, at parade rest. I noticed he stood on display like any captive wild animal. A lion might stand like that: still proud in his ferocity, dangerous, unapproachable. Like a predator awaiting his chance to lash back at those who captured him, patient and still.
Nay, not a lion. A wolf. Only a wolf might have that enduring, silent cunning, the wit to bide his time. The wolf had the intelligence and craftiness to wait for his captors to make a mistake, to grant him the chance for his revenge and his escape. He may resemble a lion with that thick heavy mane, I thought fleetingly, but I saw only a lone wolf. I glanced sidelong at Prince Broughton and the White Lion emblem on his mantle. Lions have no real cunning, I thought, and glanced quickly away before he caught my eye.
With a startled oath I barely kept behind my lips, I recognized the slave. The monstrously big gladiator I had watched two days earlier. He was the combatant with the incredible speed and reflexes, for one of his size and muscle bulk. I remembered him: the warrior who moved with the lithe, lazy, powerful grace of a stalking leopard.
“He belongs to my father,” Brutal said proudly. “He’s the royal Khalidian champion. He’s been undefeated for more than ten years.”
If he had been defeated, he would be dead, I thought with disgust.
Kel’Hallans kept no slaves, and thought little of those who did. I hated the notion of forcing slaves to kill one another for sport. That day I first glimpsed this fearsome man in battle, I held Kel’Ratan’s wrist to prevent him from standing up and bellowing his rage while I swallowed, nearly choking, my own. Of course, I never let any of the Khalidian court know of my dislike for their national sport. To do so meant inviting more acid gossip about my warriors and me than what already flew around the royal Federal court. I saw no need to add more fuel to the rising, hot flames.
I studied the slave, noting more scars from battle and whip on his darkly tanned chest and belly. I also took note of the thick black hair that framed his face and down his shoulders. He had strong facial features, with a long aristocratic nose that appeared to have been broken, not once, but many times. It failed to detract from his looks, however, or demean the full, sensuous lips. Scars never detracted from a man’s good looks, I always thought. He was to my eyes rather handsome, in a rugged, untamed way.
Kel’Ratan returned with chalices in each hand, but waited behind Broughton’s shoulder. He caught my eye for a brief instant, an odd expression in his blue eyes. I sent him a quick warning look, then returned my attention to the prince and the wolf.
“Er, what did you say, my lord?”
“I merely commented he has a genuine gift for horses.” Brutal eyed me with amusement. “You might like that, as the supreme commander of the Horse Lords. My father often sets him to training the royal stallions and warhorses.”
“Indeed?”
“He has been drawn to the stables since he was a lad. In the royal stables there is a horse no one could ride—until Wolf came along. Now the stud is as quiet as any child’s pony.”
“Wolf? That’s his name?”
Brutal shrugged. “It’s what he’s been called since he came here. If he had a name I never knew what it was.”
I watched Wolf again. He remained motionless, patient, waiting. Silent, he looked at no one and nothing. For some odd reason, his name held no surprise for me. He had a decidedly wolfish air about him. His two handlers also stood silent, heavy clubs thrust through their belts. Whips and swords hung from thongs on their right hips. As though they would be enough to stop him, should Wolf begin a rampage through the hall.
“Are those two really necessary?” I asked.
“He’s a dangerous animal, my dear,” Brutal replied seriously. “Were he to be loose…he kills as casually, and with as much remorse, as other men swat flies.”
Broughton finally noticed Kel’Ratan and his full chalices of wine, his eyes widening slightly. Perhaps, he too, feared Kel’Ratan and disliked how close my cousin stood t
o him without any of his bodyguards near to hand. Kel’Ratan bowed low, fluidly, the wine in each burly hand rock steady. How did he accomplish that? How could such a big man with few courtly manners manage a graceful bow to the prince without spilling a drop? My pride surged.
“Your Highness?” Kel’Ratan handed my chalice to me, and offered the other to my betrothed. I felt no surprise when Broughton declined with a wave of his hand. I knew he had a horror of eating or drinking anything anyone offered him. Which was probably why he had so little meat on his bones, I thought. I glanced back at Wolf, once more admiring his handsome strong features, the muscles I might see more often on a bull than on a man. I definitely liked men with some meat on their bones.
Deciding Kel’Ratan was, for the moment anyway, harmless, Broughton continued as though Kel’Ratan wasn’t there.
“Did you enjoy the sport the other day?” he asked. “To see your pet in action?”
My pet? I thought in horror. Lady have mercy. Slewing around, I stared at Prince Broughton. He rocked back on his heels, his gaze mild and wistful as he gazed at the gladiator. Kel’Ratan had stepped somewhat to his side, yet out of Broughton’s direct line of sight. He watched the prince carefully, closely, with an attention that caught mine. His guarded expression confused me, but I forced myself back to Broughton with an effort.
“As a warrior yourself, no doubt you would appreciate our national sport. Men pitted against men. You’d like to watch men struggling for life itself against wild and ferocious animals. The thrill of combat. Death and victory. War and triumph.”
“Your Highness—”
“I do so hope you accept?” Brutal’s habitually dead eyes shone with eager anticipation, a shy, rather sweet smile playing about his lips. He looked like a small boy full of surprises, if one had no prior knowledge of his despicable reputation. “Please say you will accept, sweet Ly’Tana.”
He bent, suddenly, and kissed my hand. First, as a courtier would his queen, then on the inside of wrist as a lover might.
“Sire?”
In a Wolf's Eyes Page 4
