by Jill Myles
Seri didn’t have the heart to disappoint her sister, whose pleasures in life were so few. “I shall try to get bread. Maybe butter, if I can haggle.”
She thought back to the caravan, the nobles heading to the newly rebuilt castle. No doubt they had coin. Perhaps they would buy Vidari wares.
Her father groaned in the other room and Seri bit her lip. Maybe there’d be an Athonite healer at the market and she could find something to ease her father’s pain. That decided her. Dangerous or not, she had to go.
As Josdi chattered happily and gathered her small, decorative pillows, Seri went to her personal altar. She knelt before the small wooden stand and raised her palms to the air, starting with the traditional prayer to the four gods. Kasla, goddess of life, bring rain and green plants. Hast, god of the hunt, give us plentiful game. Naree, goddess of the sun, shine your face down upon us in blessing. Oren, god of the moon, stay your dark hand. She thought for a moment, and then added, Help me help my family. I’ll do anything, just help me take care of Josdi and Father.
She shook out her pocket and emptied the last few crumbs of cornmeal, placing them on the altar in front of the symbol for Hast. The first bite of food was always offered to the god, and while there was no dinner yet, he must have his due. With a small touch to each of the four symbols, she got to her feet again.
As she moved toward the door, she picked up her shawl from the table, and her eye caught on the wooden knife they used to cut meat. She clasped the carved handle. The city was unsafe, and she was going in alone at night. But then she shook her head. It didn’t matter how dangerous the city streets were—a Vidari with a weapon was a death sentence.
“Here they are,” Josdi said breathlessly, handing her the neatly packed pillows. “I wrapped them in my shawl. I hope you get good money for them.”
Seri kissed sister’s her cheek. “Watch Father and try to stoke the fire every now and then. I’ll return soon.”
“Be safe,” Josdi called. “I’ll pray at my altar that the gods smile upon us.”
Seri sighed. So much prayer for a simple market visit. She just hoped it would be enough.
* * *
Her rangy mule saddled with bags of goose down and Josdi’s pillows, Seri followed the main road toward the city. The old castle sat high on a cliff, looming over the huddled streets of Vidara City. It was a good two-hour walk away, and already the sun was setting.
Seri held her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she pulled up beside an Athonite carriage, feeling foolish on the back of her loaded mule. She was the only Vidari heading in the same direction, and her sense of unease grew as she felt people staring. Two ladies with fine dresses and elaborate, looping hairstyles took one look at her through their carriage window and tittered. Another flicked a fan and gave a haughty sniff.
Seri’s face burned and she eased the mule’s pace a little to let them pass.
The next two lengths passed rather peacefully, if slowly, and the last of the sunlight faded around her. Her mule, Bialla, was slow and stiff in her old age and began to wheeze at the uphill trek. Seri slid off the animal and led her by the reins, deciding to walk the rest of the way. A loud whistle sounded behind her and Seri’s head snapped up.
A group of soldiers leered at her on the road, and one fingered his crotch. “Vidari girl,” he called at her. “Coming to make a few coins at the castle? I’ve got something for you to ride.” He gestured lewdly at his crotch again. “Why don’t you bring those long flanks over here?”
Seri tugged at her faded dress. It only reached her knees—scandalous in the Athonite world, but practical to the Vidari. Cheeks reddening, she ignored him and turned back toward the castle.
Laughter erupted from the soldiers, and more began to call out at her: dark, lascivious things. Seri clenched her fists. They might think her people loose because of their long, free hair and different manner of clothing, but to be treated like a common whore? She yanked on the reins and walked a bit faster, ignoring the rocky fragments that bit into her feet.
“Hey girl, come over here and show me some more of that brown skin!” one man with a scar that ran from his eyebrow to his lip hollered. “Or should I come over there?”
Seri’s heart hammered. Stories of what happened to Vidari girls caught alone whirled through her mind. Girls who had shown up in the village, beaten and scarred, after several days. Girls who were dragged away to Athonite brothels. Or girls who just never came home again.
As she urged Bialla along, her foot slipped on a loose rock. She stumbled on the rutted road, sliding a few steps before catching herself and landing roughly against the door of one of the fine carriages. It stopped instantly on the impact. The horses neighed, and the soldiers seemed to suck in a collective breath. The curtains over the window drew back and Seri gasped in shock.
Staring out at her was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He had fathomless dark eyes, his jawline was strong and square, and his cheekbones were both masculine and aristocratic. He looked as she’d imagined the god of the moon might—pale and otherworldly—if it weren’t for the look of revulsion that curled his lips. He eyed her with reproach, as if she were the one misbehaving and not the soldiers around them.
Seri’s flush intensified. This was an Athonite nobleman, so far above a Vidari goosegirl’s station that she’d probably be punished simply for touching his carriage. Still she couldn’t stop herself from staring. His dark hair was combed back in neat waves and curled against his ears. He wore an embroidered tunic, and twin gold clasps held a thick cloak in place over his broad shoulders.
“My apologies, sir.” Her words sounded grudging, even to her own ears, and she winced. She’d known Vidari who had been beaten for lesser offenses. Jovis’s own sister had been publicly whipped because she splashed mud on a lady’s cape. She licked her lips, frightened. “I stumbled.”
His eyes narrowed. He stared at her for so long that she began to feel uncomfortable. Then his gaze slid further down the road to where the soldiers stood. As one, they fell silent, becoming solemn and rigid in place. “Cease toying with the girl,” he said loudly, his voice carrying to the soldiers. “If she were fortunate, she would not be on the road hitched to a donkey on its last legs. As it is, you would do well to ignore the road filth and remember yourselves as proud soldiers of the Athonite army.”
Then the curtain snapped shut and the man’s face disappeared.
Seri stiffened, outrage blossoming through her, replacing her fear. Suddenly she understood why Rilen attended Jovis’s meetings. These arrogant, insufferable lords who thought they could march through Vidari lands and lord over her people? It was not to be endured.
Then Bialla brayed, breaking Seri’s thoughts and throwing the soldiers behind her into fits of laughter. One doubled over, his sword gleaming in the waning light, and just like that, Seri remembered her place. To be silent, subservient. To get to the market and back, safely, with food for Josdi and medicine for her father.
No more, no less.
The last rays of the sun disappeared, and Graeme felt his strength return. He relaxed for the first time in hours, leaning back against the carriage’s cushion.
Across from him, Lady Jinda Ia Santor put an embroidered handkerchief to her nose. “Savages,” she said in a haughty tone. “I cannot believe you let that one touch your carriage and live, Prince Graeme.”
Graeme stared coldly at Lady Jinda. The high collar of her red velvet gown hid the bite marks from her previous suitors, and she had made it quite obvious that she was angling for him as her next conquest. She was beautiful and elegantly detached, the epitome of a courtier, with her teasing smiles and endless gossip. She was also dangerous, having eliminated more than one rival with darkroot poison . . . not that she’d ever been caught. But he had no doubt the rumors were true. Darkroot was a court lady’s weapon of choice, much like the a sword was a soldier’s.
Graeme looked over at Lady Aynee, sweet faced and quiet, seated next to him. For three long months they’d been companions and bedmates, and he’d drunk from her beautiful throat. But, like with all mortals, the taste of her was growing sour on his tongue. Already her rich blood had lost its flavor, and his fangs were no longer eager to sink into her pale flesh. Soon, it’d be time to choose another lover.
Such was the way of life for a prince of the Blood. Never to find relief with a partner, except for the mythical Eterna, the one woman whose blood would supposedly taste forever sweet. Graeme rubbed his brow, tired. One hundred annums at court. One hundred annums of machinations, of favor-mongering and backbiting. One hundred annums of waiting for an Eterna and never finding one. He was so Goddess-damned tired of it all, and yet the cycle continued.
And so even though Lady Jinda was haughty and proud, unlike sweet Lady Aynee, he could very well take her as his next mistress. He had not drunk from her yet, had not yet tasted that cool throat beneath his lips. She was as good a choice as any other.
If only he could persuade her to be silent.
“Did you smell that creature? Vile.” Lady Jinda touched her handkerchief to her nose again.
Graeme had barely glanced at the girl. All he’d seen was a glimpse of startled eyes, brown skin, and waves of messy blond hair. He’d been far more interested in the loud, unmannered behavior of his soldiers. “A native, I assume,” he said.
“One of the Vidari,” Lady Aynee murmured at his side.
Jinda fanned herself. “Do they still roam the plains in heathen packs?”
“Not since my father conquered them a hundred years ago,” Graeme said drily. Jinda’s antics and overblown comments were designed to stir up conversation—but he wanted to silence her, not encourage her.
“Were you there with them?” Jinda’s eyes lit up.
“A hundred years ago, I was a babe at my mother’s teat,” Graeme said. “Velair was there alongside my father.”
Jinda leaned forward. “Are those wild men causing trouble? Is that why you have moved your court to this horrible land?”
The Vidari weren’t wild but downtrodden, he wanted to retort, but held his tongue. After all, his father—the king of the Athonite lands—wanted to make sure that the Vidari remained as they ever were: sullen, broken, and insignificant. And it was Graeme’s job to do so. His father had bequeathed him these lands and ordered him to take up residence in a crumbling relic of a castle. There’d been reports of uprisings recently, and he was here to bring the Blood to the forefront of the Vidari minds, to remind them who their betters were. To remind them to heed the Blood, the immortal, the blessed.
Graeme stifled a snort. Blessed. More like cursed. The only reason the Goddess had made them immortal was simply to prolong their suffering. With their lives stretching into an endless, repetitive tedium, most of the Blood suffered from ennui. Every time his father did, he rode off to find a new land to conquer. Every time his brother felt the gnawing ache, he began more cruel court games, setting up petty rivalries and watching families destroy one another. Graeme just tunneled inward, studying maps of lands to which he had yet to travel.
He wished to spend time on the windswept coast of Craelish or see the verdant hills of Praava, but instead his father had sent him here, to the dusty lands of Vidara. Truly, the journey had not been so bad. The roads were dirt, but the weather was good. And in Vidara, he’d be at the far edge of the Athonite empire. There was nothing to the west but mountains and ice, and nothing to the east but forests. It was isolated here. Quiet. Or would have been if the court hadn’t followed him.
“I did not invite the court. It invited itself. But if you think these lands are so horrible, you are welcome to return to Athon at any time,” Graeme said finally.
Jinda’s fan worked faster. “Of course not! This is an exciting adventure, my prince.” Her small mouth turned up at the corners. “I was just curious as to why you were going now.”
“Perhaps my prince simply wanted a change of pace,” Aynee said sweetly. She gave Graeme a coy smile. “I, for one, am enjoying the adventure.”
So she said. Her frowns as they got into the gilded carriage every morning told a different tale. But Graeme knew why Jinda and Aynee were here in the wild lands; why they wouldn’t turn back to Athon, where the roads were paved in stone and the king held balls every fortnight. In a mere sevenday, Graeme would throw his sixth and final Betrothal Ceremony, the last of many fruitless endeavors to find his Eterna. Once the ceremony undoubtedly failed yet again, his father had given him leave to marry a suitor of his choice. Every eligible lady in all the Athonite kingdom, and every one of their eager mothers, would be in attendance at the ball, hoping that if the Goddess did not choose an Eterna for Graeme, he would choose one of them as his bride. Everyone was breathlessly awaiting his decision.
But Graeme knew what would happen. There would be no Eterna, and it didn’t matter whom he chose as his bride, not really. The woman he married would become dull and tasteless to him soon enough. And while he would remain eternally youthful for the rest of time, she would grow old and die, and the same tedious cycle would begin itself anew. He would pick a new wife and give her sons equally as cursed as he was.
Jinda opened her mouth to speak again. Graeme gave her an irritated look, meant to intimidate and silence. It worked, of course. None would dare anger a prince of the Blood. None, it seemed, but the Vidari rebels his father was so determined to crush.
When Seri finally arrived at the gates to Vidara Castle, her sense of foreboding grew. Athonite troops were everywhere, dressed in red regalia and cloaks that marked them as men of the guard. Breastplates armored every soldier, and they all carried sheathed daggers at their waists. It made Seri think of the wooden knife she’d left back at the house. Such an instrument against one of their metal blades would be as a kitten against a dragon.
“Seri,” someone called from behind her.
She turned, surprised to hear her name. Riding up the side of the road was Rilen, his handsome face drawn into a frown. He pulled his mare alongside her own small mule and dismounted.
“What are you doing, Seri?” He brushed a lock of hair out of her face, his eyes possessive. “You shouldn’t be out here alone at night.”
“You filled Josdi’s head with stories about the night market, and now here I am, heading there to buy dinner.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.
“Oh, Seri.” Rilen tugged old Bialla forward with a strong hand, his other leading his own horse. “You should have come to me. I would have gone with you.”
“You had a meeting,” she pointed out, trying not to worry that he’d gone directly from the meeting to the castle, toward the enemy. “And there’s no food in the house.”
“Here,” he said, and handed her Bialla’s reins. When she took them, he reached into his pocket. “Take my earnings.”
“Rilen, no. It’s yours.” A mixture of gratitude and shame swept over her: She was grateful that Rilen cared enough to help her take care of her family, but ashamed to take a handout.
“Take it,” he said, and glanced at the troops that moved slowly past. “Let’s not argue here, all right?”
She nodded and took the small bag of coins, sliding it into her pocket as they turned back to the castle. The gate was a massive portcullis, made entirely of metal and spikes. It gleamed in the torchlight. It didn’t look like the entrance to a peaceful castle, but rather the first point of defense in an estate preparing for war. There was something oddly shaped hanging off to one side of the gate that made Seri suck in a breath.
Rilen pulled her against him. “Don’t look, Seri.”
She swallowed a cry. It was too late to unsee the horror. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Kasmar. I know.” Rilen squeezed her tightly. “He was taken by soldiers last sevenday. They said he was stealing.”
>
“That can’t be.” Fear coursed through her. Kasmar’s family was the wealthiest in their community. It was Kasmar who had sold her their last cow. He had no need to steal anything.
Rilen’s face was grim. “They just wanted to make an example of him.”
“Was he involved in the rebellion? Rilen—”
“Hush, Seri. We’ll talk later.” He pulled her even closer to him and nodded at a soldier as they passed through the gate, just beneath Kasmar’s mangled body.
The castle’s courtyard was far more inviting than its exterior. Despite the dark, looming keep at the edge of the courtyard, the market was festive and heady. Striped tents and lantern-lit booths lined each of the four walls. Everywhere, people hawked wares or purchased goods. A man in a jester’s uniform carried a pole from which knotted sweet breads dangled. Small, yawning boys carried lanterns, adding light where needed. A booth nearby sold puppets, the merchant making one dance for a laughing child. In the distance, Seri could hear the sound of a reed flute and more laughter. A night market indeed. The cheer of it almost made her forget the sight of Kasmar’s body.
Almost.
Rilen patted her bag of wares. “Go sell your feathers and buy some food, Seri. I have someone I must talk to. You’ll be safe here. There are troops everywhere. Look.” He gestured at the red-cloaked soldiers walking amongst the stalls. That didn’t ease her fear. If anything, it heightened it. But the look on Rilen’s face begged for her to understand, to not ask questions.
With a small sigh, she nodded. “I’ll find Maester Grimald’s tent. Look for me near there.”
“I’ll be back soon,” he said with a quick kiss, and then he dashed off, leading his horse through the bustling crowd.
With Rilen’s coins jingling in her pocket, Seri cautiously led her mule through the tents and throngs of people, and looked at the signs. She found the herbalist by scent, not sight; the small tent smelled of decay and wet earth.
