by Jill Myles
“It symbolizes our unity as a family.” Seri smiled at the thought. “I’m to be handfasted next festival.”
Idalla leaned forward. “Tell us about your sweetheart. What’s he like? How did you meet him?”
“Oh, he’s just a simple farmer. I’ve known him my whole life,” Seri said, but quickly steered the conversation away from Rilen. “So this Betrothal Ball is held often?”
Idalla shook her head. “Every ten annums. Everyone wears their finest clothing. It’s magnificent. It’s like something out of the old stories, you know. If the prince is truly blessed by the Goddess, his bride will be revealed to him through a glowing white light, and his reign will be blessed with many daughters, new Eterna for his Blood brothers. If no worthy bride is found for him, he may continue to have Betrothal Ceremonies every ten annums until one is chosen. Prince Graeme has found no Eterna after five ceremonies, and the king has declared that he can marry if the Goddess does not choose for him.”
Five ceremonies, and each one held only every ten annums? Fifty annums of this? It sounded fascinating and appalling all at once. To think that all these noblewomen had gathered at the castle to win the hand of some doddering ancient prince.
“Has anyone been chosen by the Goddess?”
Idalla traced a knothole in the wooden table with her fingers. “Not so far. Prince Velair had six Betrothal Ceremonies before the king allowed him to marry the Lady Brey, who brought immense wealth back to the Blood.”
Seri immediately felt sorry for Lady Brey, who was probably young yet had to sleep next to a decrepit old prince and produce ever more male heirs.
“You should see the dresses, though.” Idalla gave a wistful sigh. “I remember the last ceremony as a child. Each lady tries to outdo the other. I’ve heard that Lady Aynee plans to wear bright red, the color of blood.”
“It seems rather silly to me,” Seri said. “All this pomp and circumstance for something that will not even happen. Lady Mila has her hopes set rather high.”
“I’d watch out for that one,” Idalla warned. “Her motives may seem harmless, but Lady Mila thinks only of herself and her own value.”
“I can handle Lady Mila,” Seri said. “That woman hasn’t seen a day of real work in her life.”
“Perhaps,” Idalla said thoughtfully, “but you should never underestimate a lady of the court. They can be more vicious than you’d guess.”
“How so?” Seri asked, curious how a woman who couldn’t even dress herself could pose a real threat.
Idalla glanced around then lowered her voice. “It’s not uncommon for court rivals to just vanish or fall ill from darkroot poison.” She cleared her throat. “You’d best be careful, my friend, lest you find yourself on the wrong end of her anger.”
The biscuits stuck to Seri’s dry mouth, and she forced herself to swallow. She wasn’t worried about Lady Mila poisoning her. But if anyone discovered why she was truly here, she’d find herself hanging from the gate next to Kasmar.
Prince Graeme walked the halls of Vidara Castle, surveying the upper floors for the first time. It wasn’t so different from the castles back home, though Athonite castles never had quite so many windows. It was a little alarming to think about, a bit of fabric separating him from the sun, but the air also smelled fresher and cleaner here in Vidara, so he decided it wasn’t a bad thing.
His vizier, Jardish, scuttled at his side. A tall, slender, aged man, he was very good at assisting Graeme . . . and very poor at being likable. Even now, the man was droning on about crops and transport fees and the cost of moving things out into the “wild lands,” as the Athonites referred to the Vidara steppe. Graeme knew Jardish was one of many in the court sour on the idea of living here, but court politics dictated that they follow the prince.
“How much had to be rebuilt?” Graeme asked, admiring a carved stone lintel over a door.
“The roof had collapsed entirely, and support beams had to be brought in. The frescoes and tapestries are new but much of the flooring and stonework is original.” The vizier pointed at one of the gaping doorways as they walked down the hall. “Several of the rooms are missing doors. The wood here is soft and cannot be made to fit the majesty of your residence.”
“I see. And how much are these majestic doors costing me?”
“The cost is quite reasonable,” Jardish said. “Surely your grace doesn’t intend to entertain without proper lodgings?”
He supposed not. Still, Graeme wondered at the people who had built the castle here so long ago. Not the Vidari, who once lived in hide tents amongst the trees and now lived in muddy hovels. This was a far older civilization. Perhaps even predating the Blood.
His father would hate that. He liked to think the world began and ended with Athon.
“The master at arms is waiting for you in your study, your grace,” Jardish said. “Whenever you are done exploring.”
Graeme nodded. “Let us meet him.”
Several twisting hallways later, Graeme and his vizier arrived at the room that Graeme had claimed as his study and war room. He’d filled it with his favorite books from Athon—history tomes, biographies, and philosophical texts—and a portrait of his father. A large map of the Athonite kingdom had been unfurled and pinned down on a heavy wooden table. An ancestral sword hung above a carved stone fireplace, and a servant scurried ahead of them, lighting candles.
The master at arms was waiting in the room. Graeme nodded at him and sat at the head of the table, then poured himself a goblet of water. He was thirsty, but this would only soothe the ache for a short period of time. He sipped it, then looked at Jardish. “Have Aynee waiting for me in my quarters.”
The vizier bowed. “Of course, your grace.” He nodded at the master at arms and then left.
Graeme looked at the soldier. “How do you find our new home, sir?”
The man’s face worked for a moment. Then, carefully, neutrally, he answered. “It is a place with great possibility, your grace.”
“We are not at my father’s court,” Graeme said, rubbing his brow. Goddess, on nights like this, he felt every inch of his hundred years. “Speak plainly or I shall get someone who will.”
“The Vidari are a problem,” the master at arms said immediately.
“That I knew,” Graeme said, sipping the water again. It tasted brackish on his tongue, though he knew that was the curse more than any impurity. “What is your name, sir?”
“Serrol, your grace.”
“Why are they a problem, Serrol?” He gestured at the table, covered by the map. “Sit. Please.”
The man sat. He was powerfully built, with a rough face and a scruffy beard. He looked honest, but tired. Serrol ran a hand over his face. “I’ve been here four or five moons now, your grace—”
“Call me Graeme.” It was easier to have someone speak freely when you were on a first name basis. It was one of many tricks he’d picked up at his father’s side.
He nodded. “Been here four or five moons,” the man restated. “In that time, the Vidari locals have been troublesome.”
Graeme pictured the ragged peasant girl he’d seen from his carriage. She’d looked sullen, but not like a troublemaker. “Well, that is why my father dispatched us here. What have they been doing?”
“They don’t like our laws. They moan and kick up a fuss any time they see soldiers. Attack them for no reason. A man who leaves his horse unattended for five minutes will find it stolen. It’s costing us a good deal of money, and the men get antsy at the sight of ’em. More that goes on, more trouble it causes.”
“Are they armed?” Graeme asked.
“Nothing so forthright as that, your grace—er, Graeme.” The man scratched his beard, looking uncomfortable. “But they do their best to let us know we’re not welcome. You’d think the war was yesterday and not a hundred annums ago.”
“So they’
re stubborn and unruly. I don’t see how that is a problem.”
“It’s a problem because they’re undermining authority,” the man said. “We’ve had guardsmen disappear while on patrol. Others beaten simply for wearing their colors in town. If we step in, we make things worse.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. “One of the guards was off duty and got into a shouting match with a few Vidari hotheads. Got them thrown out of an alehouse. Next day, the alehouse burns to the ground. Someone says they saw a few Vidari running away. Knew it was them because they were barefoot.”
Graeme frowned. Attacking armed troops was one thing, but attacking common merchants? “Did you catch them?”
The man nodded. “Strung ’em up in the town square for all to see and left the bodies hanging on the gate as a warning. They stole ’em right back down and murdered the guards on duty.” The man blew out a deep breath, clearly irritated. “Thing is, the Vidari don’t listen. They just get nastier the more we try to keep them in line. And there’s more of ’em coming.”
The prince cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What have you heard?”
Serrol pointed to the uninhabited plains on the north end of the map. “There’s rumors of tribes massing here, north of Uday.” Uday was a small town just up the river from Vidara City. Graeme had passed through it on his way to the castle. It had seemed quiet, but with more Vidari than he’d realized. “I sent men out to scout, and they found big tribes of ’em. Not scattered families but hundreds of them. All men. All waiting and camping in the mountains to the west. You know what that tells me?”
“It’s a war band,” Graeme said.
“Exactly,” Serrol said, thumping the map. “My scouts think they’ve been hiding in the mountains and in the forests to the west of ’em.”
“I thought no one inhabited those forests?”
“I thought that, too.” Serrol shrugged. “But now we have thousands of Vidari creeping toward the city, so they have to be coming from somewhere.”
Graeme nodded. “You’ll keep me abreast of any developments?”
“Of course.” The man squared his shoulders.
“And soldiers? Do we have enough soldiers?”
“More than enough to flatten the Vidari.”
For the next hour, Serrol went over how many regiments Vidara Castle boasted, how many were still on their way from Athon, and the training and coordination of the men. Serrol was knowledgeable and efficient, but there was something about his dismissive dislike of the Vidari that bothered Graeme. Probably just my distaste for my father’s war passions.
When they were done, he left Serrol and headed for his own quarters, his head throbbing and his thirst maddening.
His chambers were dimly lit, only one brazier near his bed giving off light. Aynee sat on a stool near the end of the bed, her long, gossamer sleep gown pooled about her feet. The throat of it was open, and her cool skin was visible.
“You called for me, Graeme?” Her tone was sweet. Happy that he’d tapped her yet again this night.
“I did,” he said, shrugging off his overcoat. He did not thank her for coming. After all, he was a prince of the Blood, and he could take any neck he wanted.
Aynee turned to face him and tilted her head to the side, revealing the long column of exquisite flesh that held the imprint of his bite and several other, older ones. His were not the first teeth to sink into her soft skin, and they would not be the last. Graeme moved to her side, cupping her chin gently and then bracing a hand against her throat.
She didn’t tense. She knew how the game was played.
He nuzzled against her flesh, hoping for a sweet scent of blood. But there was nothing, any flavor in Aynee having withered away over two sevendays ago. He still called for her, though. Stubbornness, perhaps. Reluctance to pick yet another court flower and give her hope, only to dash it.
His teeth sank deep and her blood welled under his tongue.
She gasped, moaning in pleasure as he drank.
The pleasure was all hers. Aynee’s blood tasted flat, metallic, and unpleasant. Goddess, he was so sick of this curse. How many women had he drunk from? How many times had they started out sweet and pure only to taste like ash in his mouth a scant moon or two later?
How could his father bear it for hundreds of annums?
He licked her throat, sealing off the wound and ending his taste earlier than he normally would have. Even now, he hated to run his tongue over his teeth. The taste of her was foul in his mouth.
She let the robe slip further, revealing her bare arm and a full breast. “Shall I undress, Graeme?”
“Not tonight,” he said coolly. “And tell my man to come in with a drink of water.” He needed something to clean the taste of her from his mouth.
“Not like that!” Lady Mila snapped. Her shrill cry cut through the chamber. “You’re manhandling my skirts, you little beast!”
Seri dropped the massive train of fabric, expecting another slap. She’d already received several throughout the day. Luckily, Lady Mila was on the far end of the dress this time. Seri gritted her teeth and sucked back angry words. “I apologize, lady. Please show me again how I am to hold them.”
Rough hands grabbed Seri’s, and she looked over into Winna’s serious, thin-lipped face as the woman corrected her. “Take the hooks and wrap them around your fingers. Hold the material outward and spread.” The woman wound the thin gold cording around Seri’s brown fingers with irritation. “Like you are a raven, spreading your wings.”
Seri extended her fingers, the loops of cord holding the heavy train digging into her skin. “Like this?”
“Fingers spread,” Winna snapped.
“I am spreading!” She’d been practicing the movements for days, but never to Winna’s satisfaction. Seri was never graceful enough, her movements never gliding. When she walked behind Lady Mila, she galloped and tugged at the skirts instead of artfully helping them float behind her.
Winna made a dismissive sound. “Right now it looks as if you’re a beggar clinging to her feet.”
Seri struggled to keep the impassive look on her face, hiding her thoughts. You are doing this for Rilen, for your family, she told herself again. Three dru. You’ll be able to buy a cow and some seed.
The thoughts buoyed her. She had endured nearly three days of these unpleasant Athonite ladies. She could surely tolerate a few more. With a calming breath, Seri obediently followed when Lady Mila moved forward once more.
“Better,” Lady Mila said, whipping around to eye Seri. “You’ll continue to practice tonight. I want it to be perfect for the ceremony, and there are only four days left!”
“Of course, my lady,” Seri assured her, unhooking her fingers from the fabric.
“Is your costume ready?” Mila’s features hardened into a mask of dislike. “Everything has to be in place.”
Seri hesitated. “What am I to wear?” She looked to Winna, remembering with a sinking stomach that Lady Mila had mentioned a “spectacular” costume.
Winna picked a stray thread from Lady Mila’s gown, avoiding Seri’s eyes. “You’ll see. My lady’s tailor is putting the final touches on it as we speak, and you shall be fitted just before the ball.”
“Splendid,” Mila announced, a smile returning to her red lips. “We shall catch the eye of every man there. Though of course the prince is the only one that matters.” She gave a girlish giggle and tugged at the bodice of her dress. “Come and take this off me, Winna. I need my beauty sleep. All this worrying over the savage girl is fraying my nerves.”
“Of course, my lady,” Winna said, hurrying over to Lady Mila’s side. The other women scattered from the room, leaving only Seri, who still stood holding the train of the fine dress.
Winna cast a hateful look Seri’s way. “Why are you still here?”
Seri set the dress down, tangled cords and all, and retreate
d out of Lady Mila’s quarters. But instead of going to practice the proper way to hold the gown, Seri planned to do what she’d done the past three days: wander about the castle trying to learn what lay beyond each door, when the guards switched out for the evening, and who had keys to what. First, she headed to the servants’ kitchens, said a quick hello to Idalla, and picked up a tray of hot tea.
“Is your lady thirsty again?” Idalla asked, her brows going up.
“Always,” Seri lied with a smile. She held the tray against her breast and walked out. She’d learned that no one asked questions of a servant carrying a tea tray, not even if she was a Vidari servant.
She’d already mapped out the servants’ quarters and counted beds in the barracks until the number had grown dizzyingly high, but she’d had yet to explore some of the richer hallways. Since it was dusk, she still had a few hours before most of the nobles would be awake.
With her tray steadied, Seri set out toward the far side of the castle. A maid with flaming red hair glanced at her, and a guard whispered something untoward under his breath, but Seri just kept her gaze ahead and no one stopped her. She climbed to the third floor and came upon a hallway she’d never seen before. The stone floor was wide and bare, and there was only one door in the entire wing. Candles flickered on either side of the doorframe, but the hallway was empty and silent, save for her own footsteps.
Seri shifted the tea tray and tried the doorknob. It opened easily, and she prepared to offer her usual excuse—that she was a stupid servant who’d gotten lost—but the room was dark, unoccupied. Setting the tray on the floor, she fumbled to light a candle with the flint tongs she kept in her uniform pocket. It sputtered to life, illuminating a room even more sumptuous than Lady Mila’s. Embroidered drapes covered a series of windows. Wood beams ran along the ceiling, and hand-tooled leather lined the walls. A massive wooden desk inlaid with ivory sat in the center of the room, surrounded by matching carved chairs. Off to one side were a set of bookshelves and an enormous oil painting of a stern-looking young man with long, waving black hair and a cruel mouth. He had one foot propped on a helmet, his sword casually resting against his thigh.
