by C. A. Szarek
Recalling all the times he’d gotten a tanning as a child, Jorrin bit back a groan. He’d never been able to lie to his mother and get away with it.
“Love?” she prompted.
“Jorrin . . .” Braedon started at the same time, tone and expression concerned.
“We can discuss it later. Mother’s here . . . it’s cause for celebration.” Jorrin plastered on a smile that didn’t fool either of his parents.
Braedon gripped his arm and squeezed in comfort, and he almost lost his control when he saw the emotion in his father’s eyes. He genuinely hurt for him, and not only because of empathic magic.
“Let’s go into the great hall. We’re to be seated on the dais with the king and queen.” Jorrin’s voice trembled, and he cursed it.
“Aye, I was informed,” Braedon said.
Jorrin sighed, ordering his emotions to calm. His father was going to leave it alone for now, and he was grateful.
“I am very anxious to see Hadrian,” Vanora admitted, fidgeting at his father’s side.
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, Mother.”
As they entered the great hall, all eyes were on Jorrin and his parents; a hush fell over the crowd as they neared the dais, most likely in reaction to his beautiful mother, who didn’t look a turn over twenty, though she was actually closer to sixty.
Elves lived much longer than humans and appeared to age more slowly. To everyone in the room, Vanora probably looked much too young to be his mother. She probably also looked too young to be on the arm of a man who was actually twenty turns her junior.
Aramour was about the only place they didn’t get stares. Elfin and human pairings were quite common.
****
A distinct hush fell over the crowd of courtiers, knights, lords and ladies.
Cera looked up from her conversation with Hadrian, which had actually been successfully distracting her from Jorrin.
She gasped.
The man she was trying to forget walked toward the dais, but he wasn’t alone. His father was with him, as well as the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen.
The elf maiden had to be Jorrin’s mother, but it was hard to believe. She didn’t look much older than Cera herself.
“Vanora,” Hadrian breathed, stumbling to his feet.
Cera tried not to stare. It was a wonder, seeing her stand between the two tall men when she was so diminutive. She couldn’t be much past four feet tall, but she was probably still taller than Hadrian. Perhaps the wizard was considered short—for an elf.
Jorrin’s mother held herself regally, her beauty ethereal. Her flaxen hair fell past her waist in long luxuriant waves, framing her face and small body like a glowing aura. Her tapered ears were long—much longer than Jorrin’s—and added to her elegance. Her intricate gown was a silvery blue color and as she walked, it flowed, making it seem like she was floating beside Braedon.
There was absolutely no surprise why she was inadvertently mesmerizing the courtiers and knights alike.
Were all female elves as beautiful as Jorrin’s mother, or was she unusual?
If that kind of beauty was ordinary amongst their kind, why had Jorrin even looked at her in the first place?
Cera couldn’t hold a candle to Vanora.
The way Braedon and Vanora were looking at each other made her heart ache.
Cera and Jorrin had looked at each other that way—before.
Before he’d decided to crush her.
And now she’d have to endure sitting next to him all evening.
Jorrin and his parents bowed collectively to the queen, who smiled and bid them to be seated. Even Queen Morghyn looked entranced as she glanced at Vanora. Ironic, because the queen herself was widely renowned for her beauty.
Hadrian and Vanora embraced and spoke fast in Aramourian.
Could Jorrin and Braedon follow the conversation?
Braedon looked amused, and Jorrin appeared indifferent as he slipped onto the seat next to her, saying nothing. He didn’t even look at her.
She clamped her eyes shut, berating herself for caring.
“Mother, this is Lady Ceralda Ryhan,” Jorrin said, his expression implacable.
That expression hurt as well, but she tried to look unaffected and be appropriately polite as she met his mother.
“Lo—Lady Ryhan, this is my mother, Vanora Aldern.”
He’d been about to call her love, but had stopped himself.
Cera wanted to close her eyes and keep them closed.
Tears threatened.
Was everything that was between them all gone?
If so, who exactly was at fault?
Vanora was even more intimidating up close, her beauty completely stunning. She smiled sweetly and took Cera’s hand in hers. “It’s so nice to meet you. My husband has told me so much about you. I’m so glad you’ve found my Jorrin.” Her accent was thick like Hadrian’s, and heavenly, just as Cera imagined it would sound. The warm smile on her shapely lips made Cera’s eyes burn even more.
Decorum. Manners. You can do this, Cera. You were born a lady, after all.
Blessed Spirit, her mother would laugh if she’d heard that. She’d tried to make Cera into a proper lady for turns. “Yes, so am I.” Still the truth, despite everything.
Looking at Jorrin, Cera tried for a smile, but it hurt too much. She forced her lips into a curve she hoped was convincing enough when she met Jorrin’s mother’s eyes. Eyes so startlingly like Jorrin’s, it was like looking at him.
Braedon gave her a sharp look. He’d not been fooled.
Another hush fell over the crowd as King Nathal entered the great hall, trailed by a few knights, and heading straight for the dais.
His arrival gave her the perfect excuse to turn away from Braedon’s searching gaze.
The king kissed the queen and his daughter each on the cheek, then ruffled his son’s hair before taking his seat.
Cera smiled at his tenderness, even though she was disgusted with him. She had to swallow back a glare.
King Nathal addressed everyone warmly, and servants started to pour into the great hall with well-laden trays.
What a night this was proving to be.
How the hell was she going to get through it?
Jorrin didn’t talk to her at all.
Cera was tense, perched on the edge of her chair the whole meal. She didn’t have much of an appetite, though she forced food into her mouth without tasting it, despite her growling stomach. Breakfast had been very early that morning.
When most of the hall had finished eating, King Nathal stood and cleared his throat.
He’d definitely announce their betrothal if he’d told Jorrin he was planning to.
Cera groaned.
She couldn’t stand and shout a denial, but she had every intention of seeing the king privately to give him her refusal.
He went through his announcements quickly, publicly knighting Braedon, Jorrin, Tristan, Lucan, Hadrian—who looked so uncomfortable it was a wonder if he even thought it was an honor—and Avery.
Cera was overjoyed for all of them, especially Lucan and Avery. Both of them had cheeks the brightest shade of red she’d ever seen, but she mustered a tease and a hug for each of them, genuinely proud of her cousin and the boy who’d saved them all.
Congratulations were given freely by many other knights in the hall, and people started moving around, migrating to the dance floor.
King Nathal said nothing of Jorrin’s new title or a betrothal.
Had Jorrin lied to her?
She turned to answer a question Vanora asked just as the dratted king cleared his throat again. Cera glanced up at him, his height even more impressive from her seated position.
She found him looking directly at her. Shifting in the chair, she swallowed back her nerves. Inclining her head, Cera tried to keep her face a mask of pleasantness, but she was furious.
Anger was
good; it covered some of the pain in her chest.
“Please stand, Lady Ryhan,” King Nathal said.
Was that amusement in his tone?
She narrowed her eyes, she couldn’t help it. “Yes, your Majesty?”
The king gave her a look that told her he knew she was aware of exactly what.
Scrambling to her feet, she planted her arms at her sides.
Jorrin stood when asked, squaring his shoulders and tugging his sliver doublet in place.
Cera tried not to watch him out of the corner of her eye. She ordered her eyes forward, scanning the expectant gazes of the people in the great hall and ignored the fluttering of her stomach, and the part of her that was happy the king would declare them betrothed.
Jorrin had betrayed her.
Cera didn’t want this.
King Nathal announced Jorrin’s new title first and had to wait until the resounding cheers died down so he could continue.
Jorrin shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Cera had to stop herself from grabbing his hand.
When the king proclaimed their betrothal, there was a moment of silence in the vast room. People exchanged glances.
Heat crept up her neck, scorching her cheeks. When Cera glanced at Jorrin, his expression was once again implacable. Somehow that crushed her all over again.
Queen Morghyn clapped her hands, everyone cheered. The whole head table started to speak at once, everyone embracing her, including Lord Dagget, Tristan’s father. It was an awkward side hug, which would’ve amused her at any other time.
Congratulations ran rampant, and Cera plastered on a smile. She only glanced at Jorrin a few times, but he was also in the midst of being hugged and saluted. Cera failed to catch his eye.
Not that she wanted to, anyway.
“Your mother would be so proud of you,” Aunt Em said as she held her. She hugged her the longest, and Cera couldn’t hold back tears.
Tears that were misinterpreted.
Avery hugged her next, but by the look he’d given her he’d figured out something was not quite right. For the time being her cousin held his tongue and for that, Cera was grateful.
When Braedon enfolded her in an embrace, it was one of comfort, not congratulations, and Cera squeezed her eyes shut against his shoulder. She didn’t want to find comfort in Jorrin’s father’s arms.
She didn’t want him to know what was wrong.
Stupid empathic magic.
“Whatever is wrong can be mended,” Braedon whispered in her ear.
Meeting his eyes, she shook her head.
His smile was gentle, an obvious disagreement, but Braedon said nothing further.
Cera had no desire to stay for the dancing. She excused herself, feigning fatigue from the journey to Terraquist.
The king nodded, allowing her dismissal, but she had a feeling he’d seen right through her. She bid her family and friends goodnight and left the dais in search of Leargan.
Cera found him with a small group of other young knights and asked him to escort her back to her assigned chambers.
The knight raised a dark brow, but didn’t ask why she wasn’t being escorted by her newly betrothed. Instead, he offered his arm and she took it, silently grateful.
A gaze burned, and she glanced instinctively toward Jorrin. He was staring, fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, but made no move to come to her.
“Ready, my lady?” Leargan smiled. He was curious, but he wouldn’t ask.
She was grateful for his decorum. “Oh yes, thank you.”
They walked down the corridor in silence, and for that Cera was also appreciative. When they arrived outside her rooms, she gave Leargan a genuine smile. “Thank you, Leargan. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, my lady,” the knight said, with a small bow. “I look forward to getting to know you, if it’s not too bold of me to say, Lady Ryhan.”
“Meaning?”
Tall, dark shoulder length hair, eyes like pools of midnight and the natural golden skin of an Ascovan, Sir Leargan Tegran was very handsome, but her heart was in no shape to be courted. Not to mention their difference in station.
Cera winced, thinking of Jorrin.
“The king didn’t tell you?” Leargan asked. “I’m to captain your personal guard and train your men.”
“There are a few things the king neglected to tell me,” Cera snapped. She flushed when the knight’s eyes widened, forcing a breath and reaching for her manners. “Wonderful news, Leargan. Thank you. I look forward to it. Greenwald needs a strong leader.”
“I’m sure with Lords Aldern and Dagget, along with yourself, Greenwald will have all it needs.” Leargan flashed a smile.
Tears hovered, and Cera could only nod. “Thank you for escorting me. Goodnight,” she croaked, slipping into her room and shutting the door just short of a slam. She hadn’t even waited for his answer.
Cera couldn’t hold back her sobs. She ran to the bed and threw herself down, burying her face in the pillows.
Trikser leapt up beside her and whimpered, nudging her shoulder, then her side when she didn’t respond.
Looking up at her wolf, she wrapped her arms around him as he lay down and cuddled against her.
“Oh, Trik, everything’s ruined.”
Trikser whimpered and licked her face.
She couldn’t even smile.
Chapter Thirty
The next morning Cera got up early and donned breeches, a tunic and a new leather jerkin she’d managed to wheedle out of one of the king’s stewards. Sleeveless, it was a much finer, softer leather than the one it replaced. She smoothed the surface down her breasts and stomach with both palms. The feel of the fine hide was pleasing to the touch.
After grabbing her bow and quiver, she belted on her magic sword. With one last look at the huge room, Cera swung the quiver over her shoulder and left, thankfully seeing no one in the corridor.
She headed into the great hall, Trikser on her heels, not concerned about the looks she received from people passing by in the corridors, both regarding her choice of dress and her bondmate’s presence.
Planning on heading to the King’s Riders’ training grounds after filling her stomach, Cera could work up a sweat, forget some hurt, and clear her mind before she approached the king.
She was able to break her fast without running into anyone she wished to talk to, including the king himself. Cera received dark looks from surrounding courtiers when Trikser lay at her feet at her chosen table, but she ignored them, and no one had the guts to approach her. She was the Duchess of Greenwald, after all, much higher in rank than the surrounding minor lords and ladies.
Passing through the courtyard, Cera was on her way to the stables to get Ash for the short ride to the training grounds when someone called her name.
Hadrian strode toward her wearing a cloak, ready for travel.
Her heart sank.
“Ah, lass. I’ve been looking for you all over.” His pointed hat was slammed over his unruly white hair, obscuring his face.
“Hadrian . . . you’re leaving?” Cera’s voice choked.
“Aye, lass. I don’t belong here. Lord Dagget and his men are heading back to Berat and they’ve said I can ride with them. It’s time.” The elf wizard smiled warmly and Cera met his clear blue eyes.
A lump rose in her throat as Hadrian’s face started to blur. “Hadrian . . .”
“Hush, lass. It’s for the best. You know where I live. Come visit me.” His tone was gruff, but he smiled again.
Cera forced her lips to curve up, unable to find her voice. Before he could protest, she crushed him in a hug.
Hadrian returned her squeeze and chuckled when she released him.
Trikser wuffed and wagged his tail, insistent on getting the elf wizard’s attention as well.
The elf gave her wolf a scratch behind the ear and a pat on the head that seemed to satisfy them both.
�
�Thank you . . . for all you’ve done for me.” A single tear creeping down her cheek.
Hadrian shifted in his boots, saying nothing, but gave her a curt nod.
“Have you seen Vanora and Braedon . . . and Jorrin?” It hurt to say his name.
“Aye, I’ve said all my goodbyes, you were the last. I’m glad I found you.”
The pounding of hooves echoed throughout the courtyard.
Tristan’s father, Lord Dugald Dagget, and his men rode in, glancing in their direction. They waited for Hadrian, one of the knights holding Winthrop’s reins.
Cera exchanged one last look with the elf wizard and swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“Looks like it’s time. I don’t want to keep them waiting,” Hadrian said.
Forcing a nod, Cera walked the elf wizard to Winthrop’s side and watched him mount. Her stomach did a back flip, afraid she’d never see him again, but she pushed the feeling away.
Hadrian would be in his cottage any time she needed him. Like he’d said, she knew where he lived.
She would visit.
“Good morning, Lady Ryhan,” Lord Dagget said, bowing from his saddle.
Cera smiled at Tristan’s father and inclined her head. “Lord Dagget. Safe travels,” she said as pleasantly as she could manage.
The duke was dressed grandly, wearing crisp deep brown leathers with a bright green tunic and doublet made of shimmery fabric. No armor, but his saddle displayed the embroidered seal of Berat: a large bear surrounded by lush forests, depicting what the Province was known for.
“Thank you, my lady.” Lord Dagget smiled warmly. His hazel eyes and brown hair were the exact shade of Tristan’s—though the son’s hair was much shorter. Despite the gray at the temples, he was handsome.
“Cera, take care of Jorrin, he’s a good lad,” Hadrian said, giving her a long look that told her he was aware all was not well.
Hearing his name made her wince, and Cera couldn’t stop the tears on her cheeks, nor could she find her voice. She nodded.
That seemed to satisfy the elf wizard.
She watched him ride away with the group of men, sadness threatening to overwhelm her.
Having slept on things didn’t change her mind about Jorrin—she was still convinced he’d betrayed her—but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.
