Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  “You’ve got some nerve, soldier,” he murmured, his voice husky and teasing. “I’ll have you know I’m a lady of sound morals, not some tavern wench you can-”

  And then I was on him again, the flooding river of my aching heart overflowing its banks to drown the small space between us. Our lips met in earnest this time, nothing timid in the way he pulled me close, one hand twisting in my hair and setting it free from its last remaining pins. It tumbled down over my shoulders, his fingers sampling its softness as we kissed.

  Ah, gods, the sheer sweetness of it – I melted inside myself, thoughts racing as a wave of heat cascaded over me and the scent of summer lilies surrounded us. When our swollen lips finally parted, he swept the thick curtain of my dark hair aside.

  “I don’t ever want to be without you,” he said, his voice low and rough, a look on his face unlike any I’d seen there before.

  I had no reply, no words to express the blazing fire in my chest, so I grabbed him by his unruly red hair and pulled him back to me.

  Stupid, selfish girl.

  I should have known such a thing wouldn’t stay secret for long. Mother called me out at one of my morning lessons two days later. I was reciting some romantic drivel by the Elan poet Ephelius when I noticed her eyeing me with that unfocused stare. I realized suddenly that I’d been lingering over the words, as though hearing them for the first time despite having uttered them several dozen times before. I made a point to hurry through the last few stanzas, after which I fell silent and schooled my face to a mask of bored indifference, awaiting her next challenge.

  “Very good,” she remarked. “Unusually musical, for you.”

  I don’t know why I bothered trying to dissemble. My mother could read anyone. Shifting in her chair, she set aside the small book of sonnets in her hands.

  “Be careful, Elivya,” she warned, her satin voice uncommonly hushed. “You know what is expected of you when we return to Litheria next fall.”

  It wasn’t really a question but I answered anyway, my throat tight around a single barely-audible word.

  “Yes.”

  Her head tilted a fraction, bright eyes meeting mine with a mix of caution and compassion.

  “…Does he?”

  I stiffened but held my tongue as uncertainty sank its teeth into my chest. Until that moment, I’d not given a single thought to the line we had crossed or the consequences of doing so. After all, it was just a kiss. A touch. Nothing capable of ruining me, especially so far from the predatory eyes of the White City.

  The swish of Mother’s skirts pulled me back into the present as she rose from her chair and fetched a violet pouch from a small coffer on the shelf. I set aside my book to accept it, loosening the drawstring to peer inside. The stiff scent of herbs drifted up to fill my nose, a spark of nostalgia accompanied by Izikiel’s weathered visage flashing through my mind.

  “Silphium,” she supplied in her pragmatic tone. “Silverleaf. Steep it in your tea within the same day, and you’ll not conceive.”

  I flushed bright pink, tongue tripping over my hurried protest. “We haven’t-”

  “You will.”

  There was no judgement on her face, no condemnation for deeds not yet done, decisions not yet made. Only a tiny, rueful smile and an unfamiliar shadow of sorrow darkening the corners of her unusually open countenance.

  “I am not fool enough to tell you to end it,” she added. “Doing so would only make you careless, and that is the last thing you can afford to be.” The curl of her lips fell, giving way to an intense solemnity that had me holding my breath. “But you know the Court will never accept a high lord of common birth. Before it goes any further, make sure you both understand its end is already written.”

  I stared at the pouch clutched between my hands, her words stirring a painful truth I’d been assiduously avoiding. Whatever lay between James and I, it could not follow me back to Litheria. Nor could the scandal our tryst would surely ignite if discovered by the likes of Patricia and her entourage of vipers. But it could live here, in the rural isolation of Laezon, at least for a while, allowed to flare and burn and fade like any other youthful passion.

  But what if it didn’t fade?

  What if I couldn’t bring myself to let him go?

  A nondescript murmur and a wave of my mother’s hand interrupted my thoughts, dismissing me for the day.

  “Elivya,” she called as I hurried to make my exit.

  I halted with one hand on the knob and looked back to meet her shuttered gaze.

  “One year,” she added somberly.

  I nodded and slipped out the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  The winter after our return from the garrison, Father invited me to join him and several of the men of the household on a hunt. The wolves had grown bolder, as they often did in the lean months, and two of our valuable new foals had been lost in as many weeks. As a woman, it was an unprecedented invitation. This was no pleasure hunt in the warm summer months, with baying hounds and carefully-packed delicacies in our saddlebags. There would be no laughter or song, no servants or leisurely respite. It was an endeavor of harsh necessity, one that would leave none of us smiling by the end.

  We set off at dawn, a handful of able-bodied men and sturdy horses trudging out the main gate beneath a lazy snowfall. Samson’s scarred face twisted at the sight of me, his clear disapproval darkening my mood, but I wasn’t about to be cowed by the old brute. With a bow and freshly-filled quiver strapped to my saddle, Valor and I trailed after them into the snowy wilderness.

  Crossing the open fields of Laezon, I began to second-guess my place among their hardened company, shivering in the merciless environs despite my thick wool breeches and cloak. The trickle of flurries that had heralded our departure steadily grew into a torrent of thick flakes, blustering across the hills and valleys in sheets of blinding white. Gusts of frigid wind blasted my cheeks with snow and ice, frosting my eyelashes and chasing me deeper into the layers of my motley garb. When we finally reached the shelter of the dense forest, the bite of the wind subsided, but it was still miserably, bitterly cold.

  James rode beside me wherever the trees allowed. His presence alone was a bolster to my waning spirits, and the doe-eyed looks he flashed me on occasion did wonders to keep me warm. Every furtive glance renewed the memory of his skin against mine, a tangle of limbs and ache barely two nights past. We’d learned every inch of each other over the six months since that kiss, until our adolescent restraint could bear no more and we finally put those piles of straw – and my pouch of silverleaf – to good use.

  It took the better part of six hours to track the wolves down. Though our household boasted a number of skilled huntsmen, the harsh weather had left few tracks to follow and we were forced to double back several times when trails went cold. At long last, as the sun began to sink in the sky, we found them. No one had spoken for hours, the biting cold discouraging all but the most essential exchanges, but that silence somehow deepened when my father raised his hand at the head of our somber column. At Samson’s hushed orders, we halted and dismounted, leaving our horses tethered as we pressed on through the trees. Boots crunched the frozen blanket beneath our feet, nine clouds of steaming breath fanning out to encircle the den.

  They were beautiful. I hadn’t counted on that. Thick, white fur glistened in the afternoon light, powerful limbs in repose as they basked in what limited sunshine slipped through the spindly canopy above our heads. Glassy eyes flashed amber and blue and green. One yawned – yawned – like any household pet. Killing them suddenly felt so utterly wrong, but these were no docile hounds. These were predators. Stunning as they were, the carnage they’d left behind stood testament to each foal’s violent end.

  Our herd, I reminded myself. My responsibility. Father had bucked centuries of tradition to bring me along. I’d not disappoint him by losing my nerve. Samson’s hulking figure loomed across the clearing from me, the mere sight of him se
rving as a bitter taunt.

  When it comes to the doin’, it’s only a man follows through to the end.

  The commander’s cruel words rang in my head, stoking the ever-present coals of my pride. Determined to prove the old bastard wrong once and for all, I stifled my misgivings and slipped off my borrowed mittens, dropping them to the snow at my feet.

  All around me, concealed behind barren oaks and bristling pines, men knocked and drew. My heart thundered in my chest as my fingers cradled an arrow against the string. Yew creaked, my arm pulling taut, fletches barely grazing my cheek.

  It’s necessary. I picked my target with care, a large male close to me, a clean shot open for his heart. Balance must be maintained. For a brief moment, I squeezed my eyes shut against the surge of preemptive guilt and offered a desperate prayer. Mother, let me strike true.

  As one, we loosed.

  I’ll never forget that sound. They yelped as our arrows struck home, a frightened, heart-wrenching cry. Most of our shots landed cleanly, but a few had to be followed up with knives. That was the worst of it, high-pitched whines and terrified snarls suddenly silenced.

  My own mark had died quickly, the arrow sunk deep into his chest. I dropped to my knees beside him, trembling hands reaching out to touch his soft fur, the lingering warmth of his lifeless body seeping into my bare fingers. I was struck by the utter stillness of what had only moments ago drawn breath. The silence gnawed at me, dark tendrils of guilt wrapping around my insides.

  The crunch of snow beneath familiar boots barely registered in my ears, pausing a moment before making their way over to me.

  “Are you alright?” James murmured, his hushed tone indicating that he knew I wasn’t.

  Necessary. Necessary. Necessary. I clung to the word in my mind, battling to bury my grief beneath it.

  “Here,” he said as he pressed my abandoned mittens into my hands. “I’ll get him onto your saddle.”

  “No.” The word came out unintentionally harsh, a few nearby men casting guarded glances my way. With effort, I swallowed my revulsion and schooled my tone. “I’ll do it.”

  It took every ounce of my strength and I got blood all over my cloak, but I managed it. I could feel the eyes on me as I led Valor over and, with some rope and a sizable amount of stubbornness, levered the wolf’s carcass up and lashed it into place. By the time I heaved my own hollow mass into the saddle, I was numb inside and out.

  The moonless winter night had long since swallowed any trace of daylight by the time we plodded into the courtyard, men and mounts both exhausted from trekking through the drifting snow. Even my proud stallion dragged his hooves, clumps of ice clinging to his mane and my own. We still had to clean our kills. I wasn’t looking forward to that part.

  I unburdened Valor and handed him off to one of the younger stable boys, lingering among the others and waiting for instruction as yet another round of flurries began to fall.

  “Go,” father’s low murmur sounded at my shoulder and I turned to meet his forest eyes. The tenderness in them threatened to shatter my resolve. “See Amita about some supper. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I can do it,” I retorted stiffly.

  “I know you can,” he assured gently. His gaze swept across the men around us, some staring outright while others pretended to adjust their cloaks or knock ice from their boots. “So do they.”

  I knew I should stay. Finish it. See it through to its awful end. A son would have been expected to do so. In truth, a son would have ridden to the winter hunt at twelve, gifted some manner of clothing trimmed in his first kill’s pelt to mark the occasion. James had a pair of fur-lined boots; Seth, a thick vest he rarely wore. But the thought of gutting that magnificent beast, emptying his chest cavity and peeling the hide from his flesh, made me second-guess the strength of my constitution.

  “Go on, lass.” Samson’s scarred face peered at me through the dark, something unfamiliar behind his ever-present scowl and tired eyes.

  That final nudge was enough for me. With one last glance at my kill, I turned and fled into the house.

  My mother sat with me while I spooned stew into my mouth with feigned indifference, ignoring her probing stares.

  “You are not unjustified in your sorrow,” she said at length, her tone gentle but pragmatic. “To take a life is a grave act, but if we don’t cull the packs, it is our horses who will suffer.”

  That, I knew, was a fear shared by every Lazerin in history. The herd was our livelihood, yes, but also our family’s sacred charge – a pact of guardianship maintained for a thousand years in honor of Adulil. I loved those horses as much as any of my ancestors had, but the wolf’s cry still haunted me and the thought of donning his hide like some trophy of death turned my stomach. As usual, my mother read my thoughts as easily as if they were scrawled across my face.

  “All life is sacred, Elivya, but to lead is to make choices. To weigh lives and risks and consequences for more than just yourself. To sacrifice your easy conscience for the sake of those who depend on you. There is no room for uncertainty or meekness.”

  I stared into my bowl, still locked in my disquiet, as she shifted in her chair and eyed my blood-smeared woolens.

  “Grief does nothing for the dead,” she added firmly. “If you wish to honor the beast, wear his pelt with pride. Make him a part of you. Let him remind you of your duty as one of the Seven each time you put it on. And move forward.”

  I tried, turning it over in my mind, but it never quite settled until the day of our small Yule celebration a week later. The whole of the household gathered in the great hall for feasting and dancing, a sea of familiar faces lit with merriment. From the lowest stable hand to the garrison commander, all residents of our estate were welcome on feast days, a tradition maintained by our House for centuries.

  Shera, James, and I danced until our feet ached. My handmaiden had railed at me for twenty minutes straight when she first uncovered our affair, but their animosity had eased somewhat over the fall months. Together, the three of us stuffed ourselves to bursting on the endless delicacies crowding the long dining table. The night never seemed to grow later, the clamor of festivity a constant, unbroken hum echoing through the heavy beam rafters.

  But when my father approached me with a large box in hand, the lid secured with a shimmering green ribbon, eyes followed and the raucous din fell to a hushed lull. The men of our hunting party pressed their way to the front, eyeing the parcel with quiet anticipation. My heart bucked in my chest, knowing full well what lay within, but the breath still caught in my throat when Father lifted the lid. A pool of thick wool stared up at me, dyed the deep evergreen of our House, bits of white bristling from its amorphous mass. By the sheer volume of it, it could only be one thing: a cloak.

  “There is a black one as well,” he said, “but it’s not quite finished.” I forced my hands to grasp the fabric and pull it free, a cascade of fine-combed wool tumbling all the way to the floor. A pool of white fur had been stitched into the hood, bright white against the green. As I held it, a dozen seasoned hunters watching me in silence, I finally understood.

  Not a trophy of death. A badge of honor.

  I looked up into my father’s eyes, his face aglow with quiet pride, and felt the beast settle somewhere deep within me, amid the biting wind and the bone-deep cold.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “You honor me.”

  We lost no more livestock that winter.

  CHAPTER 13

  At seventeen, I was expected to winter at court, and so we went. My parents had given me my freedom for one magnificent year, and I went toward my duties without complaint. Of the fact that one of those duties was to attract suitors, James and I did not speak. Instead, he closed himself off to me bit by bit as the fall dwindled and the date of our departure neared. Knowing full well that clinging to our doomed relationship would only make things harder for us both, I let him. By the time we set out for Litheria, he was bar
ely speaking to me.

  Lest you think me cold and heartless, I will tell you I grieved my share. How could I not? He was my best friend. My first love. My first. Oh, I wept. Quietly, privately, bitterly, hiding my wounded heart beneath a mask of solemn purpose that I thought would spare us both an even greater measure of pain.

  It’s no wonder he hated me by the end.

  My father left a month before us, taking a circuitous route through the provinces of the Lesser Houses of the Lazerin bloodline. Once every few years, he made the trip to reaffirm alliances in Montar, Korent, Erade, and Estia, and offer what assistance he could to our distant brethren. The next trip, he assured me, I would ride with him to learn yet another piece of my responsibilities as heir.

  Due to some difficult foaling, we left late in the season and the journey, though short, was miserably cold. When we finally shuffled our frozen masses through the front door of the city manor, dusk nipping at our heels, the sight of the massive hearth ablaze in the common room put a relieved smile on all our faces. Father emerged from the depths of the house almost instantly to greet my mother with a kiss while I knocked clumps of icy mud from my boots.

  “We’ve only just arrived this morning,” he informed us as he helped her out of her thick overcoat. “Bit of a delay in Erade – some trouble with the import tariffs – but Harold sent me with a few casks of the thirty-five to make up for it.”

  “You seem to have brought back more than just wine, my dear,” she mused in reply.

  I followed her gaze to the two figures lurking in the archway nearby. One, I recognized. Captain Briggs eyed me sharply as he offered a bow, clearly still resentful of my deception at the fort. Beside him stood a stranger, a young man somewhere in his early twenties, a double baldric strapped overtop his worn leather breastplate.

  “A new addition,” Father announced as he turned, sweeping one hand toward the newcomer. “This is Quintin.”