“I believe it’s time for me to go,” I finally said.
“Fleeing an uncomfortable conversation? Doesn’t speak well of your fortitude.”
“You know nothing about me!” I flung his words back at him and caught, perhaps, a twitch of a smile. “You taunt me and answer none of my questions. Why in Glorianna’s name would I stay? You bore me.”
He made a tsking sound. “Ah, Princess. That’s not true. You’re fascinated, if only by the conversation. Else you would have flounced off long ago.”
“I do not flounce.”
“On the contrary, you have a most practiced and seductive flounce. I imagine it earns all sorts of attention and concessions.”
“You watch me quite closely, then, for a person who hates me.”
“I have my reasons.”
“And they are?”
“Private.”
He hadn’t denied hating me, and though I shouldn’t care, it pricked me like the thorns on wild roses, small and slim, dug deeply into the skin. Nobody hated me. I was beautiful.
I opened my mouth to announce that I was leaving, recalled I’d said that once already, so turned to go.
“Glorianna’s daughter did survive. With her mortal blood, she eventually died, of course. But she lived a very long and full life. Her name was Talifa.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. “I never heard of her.”
He shrugged, his shoulders making sharp points against the robe. “You wouldn’t have. She was erased from the official canon of Glorianna’s teachings. ’Tis heresy to speak of her.”
“And yet you speak her name in Glorianna’s very temple.”
“Heresy according to priests. Once again, I notice that Glorianna does not strike me down.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said such a thing. You must be quite confident.”
His teeth flashed in the depths of the cowl. Not really a smile. “Or driven to other extremes. You pay close attention to my words, for a person who hates me.”
“I never said I hated you.”
“You did, actually—but without realizing it.”
I rubbed a finger between my brows, smoothing away the frown. “How do you know of this Talifa, then?”
“Because she is the mother of the White Monks order.”
“Oh.” I felt a bit deflated. Some part of me felt attached to her, as if she might have a special meaning for me. Likely it was only that the story had tugged at my heart, the way Glorianna had sought out knowledge so She could cherish and raise Her mortal child. When I was little, before I knew better, I sometimes grew angry at my mother for dying. I’d childishly thought that if she’d been more careful, she could have lived and been my mother for real.
After I grew up, I understood that she hadn’t been able to help dying. Women often died in childbirth. Still, every once in a while, a slice of that remembered anger welled up in me.
“Talifa lives on in your blood, Princess.” The White Monk said it with what I would have called gentleness from a less callous man.
That caught me short, the knot of tears in my throat cramping in fierce response.
“How can that be?”
“Because she became the Queen of the Tala—the people named for her—as your mother was after her. You are not only Glorianna’s avatar, as all seem to wish you to believe. You are Her descendant.”
My gaze flew up to the rose window. Glorianna’s descendant? Though I’d been compared to the goddess, even called a goddess from time to time, it had never occurred to me to see myself that way. I carried divine blood, and the thought made me giddy. And overwhelmed.
“I am no goddess.” I found myself fluttering.
He laughed, raven voiced, threading his hands inside his sleeves, as if he restrained himself from something. “No, Princess, you are no goddess. Not even close.”
Insulted rage followed that, and my face heated, the skin of my cheeks stretching with the pressure. Bastard to tease me and lead me on, then expose me as fishing for praise. I didn’t understand myself anymore. I seemed to be tossed on a stormy sea of emotion, riding the wave of one only to crash into the nadir of the next.
“Did I make you angry?” He murmured the words, taunting. “What will you do now?”
“What I do or do not do is none of your concern! Why do you follow me about, only to express your disdain? I want to do right by my people, my child, my goddess, and, most of all, by Hugh’s memory!” The pain spiked with his name and the realization that, in all this torturous conversation, I hadn’t thought of him once. My words ended on a near screech, the songbird’s scream of pain to his harsh corvid’s call. The background chanting stumbled, losing its cadence, then sputtered into silence.
My breath pushed in and out, hoarse and unpretty in the sudden quiet. The knot of grief that lodged at the base of my throat swelled and groaned with urgency, turning into a spinning sphere.
Now I’ll cry.
I didn’t even care who witnessed it. Even this horrible priest who seemed to delight in tormenting me. I wanted the tears gone, to release this dreadful lock that kept me confined.
But no.
The pressure grew, until I staggered a little with it. Then one of his hands cupped my elbow, decorously over my sleeve, barely touching, but still grounding me. His other hovered near my cheek, as if he might cup it. And I would turn my face into his hand, taking comfort in the caress. His gaze burned into mine, fierce in that craggy face I could see again clearly, he was so close.
“Have you wept?” He asked the question no one else had, seeing more than anyone else could.
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Sometimes the grief is too large.”
“Yes.”
He opened his mouth to say something more, his eyes softer than I’d ever seen them, pooling with some kind of compassion. Then he firmed his lips, so the scar whitened, and he stepped away, releasing my elbow and shattering the moment so thoroughly I wondered if we’d shared anything or if I’d imagined it.
“I shall not keep you longer.” His tone was formal, as was the bow that followed.
Once again, I turned to leave, swimming through the confusion that darkened my mind, more than half expecting him to call me back again. But he didn’t, so I straightened my spine and moved slowly—not that I had ever flounced in my life—from the cool rose-tinted shadows of the temple, out into the bright, white-stone light of Ordnung.
9
Unsettled and at loose ends, I wandered through the courtyard. It felt as if I’d been away forever, not just a few months. Drifts of filthy snow filled the corners, where it had been pushed aside and piled up, to keep the stones free for all the business of Ordnung. This close to the mountains, the winter snows fell deep and lasted the season.
The grief felt like this—shoved into the corners of my heart by daily concerns, where it didn’t melt, but froze there, accumulating dirt in the shadows. Spring would take care of this stuff, but nothing could warm the unused corners of my soul. Perhaps Glorianna could, but as much as I tried to pray and welcome Her voice into my heart, She remained silent.
A group of young soldiers drilled at one end of the yard. Several looked my way, losing their focus. The instructor—a woman I hadn’t seen before—rapped one on the helmet, a ringing blow like a bell. “Keep your head with your big sword, not the little one, young cock,” she barked. “Or you won’t survive your first conflict and will never tup another pretty maid again.” She glanced at me then and looked chagrined, even afraid, when she saw who it was. “Apologies, Your Highness. No offense meant. I only saw the gown and—”
I nodded and moved past as quickly as I could.
This was who I’d been, once upon a time. Strolling about in my pretty gowns, being admired by the young soldiers with Andi, who was usually hoping to avoid her responsibilities and lessons, using me as cover to escape to the stables.
Just as she’d used me to
escape into a world where she turned her back on us.
With her on my mind and the stables ahead, I made my way there. They smelled of wood, hay, and warm horses—and Andi. Her ladies used to despair of ridding her of the horsey smell for court, but the scent memory made me smile. Stable hands bowed and slipped out of my way as I followed the path to the stall where Fiona, Andi’s horse, had lived. It suddenly occurred to me that it might be empty. Uorsin had threatened to kill Fiona if he had any reason to doubt Andi’s loyalty. Surely she’d proven that.
But it filled me with awful dread, to imagine the gorgeous steed screaming and burning on a pyre, no matter what Andi had done to us all. Sorry I’d come, I started to reverse, then convinced myself Fiona would be there. Perhaps I’d take her with me to Windroven. She was a pretty, well-trained mare. Andi owed me that much.
But the box stall stood aching empty. Fiona was gone.
“Looking for something?”
Ursula emerged from the next stall, where her riding horse was stabled. Her fierce war stallion lived in another wing, where he wouldn’t bother the mares. I waved at the empty space where Fiona should have been. “He killed her after all.”
Ursula studied the space, as if Fiona might have been misplaced. The straw bedding lay fresh and clean; the trough held nothing. Her brows pulled together in thought, and I nearly told her she shouldn’t do that, but I knew she wouldn’t care for such things.
“What?” I finally said, irritated with her delay. “You know something.”
She cast a measuring look over me, gaze lingering on the gown I’d dug out of my old premarriage wardrobe. It still fit perfectly. “You don’t like it when I bring up Andi. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Just tell me if our father . . . burned the horse.” Why I had to know, I wasn’t sure. It sounded disloyal to suggest it. “I really thought he only threatened to. Not that he would.”
She returned her gaze to the stall, arms folded, leathers dusty from whatever she’d been doing. “I wasn’t sure, either. Before . . . I never would have considered it. Now . . . I’m not sure.”
Such an admission of uncertainty from Ursula made me uncomfortable, so I pushed past it. “So he did? Or you don’t know?”
“Andi was riding Fiona when I saw her.” She didn’t add more, saving me the mention of where and what had happened there.
“How is that possible? Fiona was here the whole time.”
Ursula shrugged, then picked at a flaw in the leather of her sleeve. “I suspect King Rayfe arranged to spirit her away.”
“That Tala demon! Did he want to use Andi’s horse as leverage against her? Why would he need to—she made a vow to be his wife, and Andi wouldn’t go back on that.” Or maybe she would, since I clearly didn’t know my sister at all.
“True.” Ursula’s lips curved and she shook her head absently. Then she brushed off her hands and ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair, stretching her spine. “I think he did it out of love, Ami.”
“Love?”
“You say it as if you don’t know the meaning of the word. Yes, I think he wanted her to be happy and rescuing Fiona was a gesture of his regard for Andi.”
“But how would he have known?”
“One doesn’t have to be around Andi for very long to know what matters most to her.”
Which wasn’t me.
“I saw them together, Ami,” Ursula added in a gentle tone. “I could see they loved each other even before Andi said so.”
I sighed out a long breath, the empty stall so compelling somehow. Like the big hole Andi had left in my world. “I suppose that’s it, then.”
Ursula didn’t have to ask what I meant. We understood each other at least that much. “If you asked to see her, she would. You could go to Annfwn. Or send for her. There’s very little she wouldn’t do for you. Especially . . .” She trailed off, searching for the right words.
“Especially after what she did.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure what to think anymore. Nothing makes sense.”
“Perhaps it will eventually. Give it time, Ami.”
“Everybody keeps telling me that.” Bitterness filled my voice and I didn’t try to rein it in.
“That’s because time is the only thing that will heal your wounds. Nothing we can say or do for you will make a difference. We know that, though it’s painful to see how much you’re hurting.”
“I haven’t cried for him.” Now that I’d told it to the White Monk it seemed easier to say.
“You will.”
“I don’t know.” Deliberately I tossed my hair over my shoulder, a shadow of my flirtatious ways. “Maybe I’m just that shallow. As frivolous and spoiled as you think me.”
“I don’t think that. I was angry when I said it and I’m sorry.”
“I don’t see why you’d be mad at me.”
“I’m not. That’s the thing.” The faint scent of guilt soured the sweet, warm smells of hay and horses. Her gray eyes seemed full of something unspoken. Abruptly she made a fist and slammed the fat part of it against the wooden beam, below the plaque with Fiona’s name made in flowers. A horse whinnied and shuffled a few stalls down. “I have to go. Command performance with the King. Wish me luck.”
“Do you—” I hesitated. “Would you want me to come with you?”
I’d surprised her. Enough that she had to swallow her reflexive refusal and reconsider me. It irritated me a little, that it hadn’t occurred to her to bring me along for moral support or advice, even—but then, I hadn’t expected to offer.
Still, if I was to be Queen of Avonlidgh and Glorianna’s avatar, then I needed to face some of the more difficult decisions. More than which dress to wear. In fact, I was a little sorry I’d chosen this delicate violet lace. It did lovely things for my eyes, but next to Ursula’s fighting leathers, I’d look like a silly flower.
“Yes,” Ursula decided. “I would. Thank you for offering. It means a great deal to me.”
I nodded, the knot in my throat hard. “We are sisters, as Glorianna and Danu are sisters. We should help each other.”
“And Moranu.” Ursula cocked her head at me. I looked away, brushing a stray strand of hay from my skirts.
“Do you plan to change for the meeting?”
“No,” Ursula replied, striding out of the stables as I hop-skipped to keep up without planting a silk slipper in a horse leaving. “I’m not going to impress Uorsin by wearing a fancy outfit. And I feel more confident in my leathers. Battle ready.” Her thin lips twisted in a wry grimace.
“Are you . . . afraid of what he’ll say?” I hesitated to ask it, but it seemed I should.
Ursula’s hand dropped to her sword, her thumb passing over the topaz cabochon jewel. “Am I afraid? Fear is a funny thing. When people are trying to kill you on the battlefield, there isn’t much time to be afraid. Beforehand—if you know it’s coming, which a lot of times you don’t—it’s mainly nerves. Anticipation. It’s afterwards, when I remember their faces, the brush of the steel that barely missed taking off my head, that’s when I feel the fear.”
“So right now, it’s nerves?”
She slid a sideways look down at me. “Maybe some.” She sighed. “But I also ask myself, what’s the worst that can happen?”
I shivered. “Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”
Only our father and the ever-faithful Derodotur waited in Uorsin’s private study. The High King wore his crown, however, which was probably not a good sign, as much as it irritated him to have it on. He raised bristling eyebrows and leveled a cold glare on Ursula.
“What are you doing here, Amelia? You don’t belong in this meeting.”
“Hello, Father!” I swept around the desk—dammit, that was a bit of a flounce—and kissed him on the cheek. “I haven’t seen much of you, so I tagged along behind Ursula. You don’t mind, do you?”
He patted my cheek affectionately. “It’s always a delight to see you, Ami. How does my
grandson come along?”
I kept my smile and laid a hand on my still-flat belly. “Gradually.”
He made a hmphing sound. “Summer is a long ways off.”
“I don’t believe the process can be hastened,” I teased him.
Instead of chuckling, he glowered at me. “You make light, but these are dire times. We need that boy to secure the succession.”
I waved at Ursula, standing at parade attention, watching my little scene with interest. “There’s our succession. Besides, I’m sure you’ll live forever.”
Uorsin slammed a fist on the table, making me flinch—though Derodotur and Ursula barely seemed to notice. They were used to this, then. “Don’t you coddle me, Daughter! It’s become absolutely clear that I cannot leave my kingdom in your weak hands.” He spoke to Ursula now. “You lost me both Annfwn and a daughter. I feel sure a son would have done better. I would have done better.”
“Then why didn’t you go?” Ursula put the question plainly, seeming unruffled. “I’ve wondered that time and again.”
“Because I trusted you,” he shot at her.
Ursula shook her head. “That’s not the reason. I know better than that.”
Uorsin sat back in his heavy chair, an expression of utter disbelief on his face. “You dare to contradict me?”
“Yes. In this small circle, I do, as I never would elsewhere. You have, and always will have, my complete and utter loyalty. You are a great king, the glue that forms the peace that holds the Twelve Kingdoms together. Without you, we are lost.”
He grunted, pleased, though he didn’t want to admit it. Ursula dealt with him well. Better than I did.
“High King Uorsin cannot cross into Annfwn—he made a blood vow.” Derodotur dropped the information as if casually noting the weather. Uorsin’s visage flooded with rage. Derodotur faced him with ineffable calm. “They need to understand, both as your heirs and as their mother’s daughters.”
A blood vow? To whom? But it did explain so much. What in the Twelve Kingdoms had he traded for such a stricture?
“In exchange for Salena’s help in the Great War?” Ursula had that look as when she played chess with him and had executed a strategic move. She thought so much faster than I did. Perhaps Father was right—I didn’t belong in this meeting.
The Tears of the Rose Page 9
