“And what of Selice?” Father asked, almost reluctantly.
“A mystery, as always,” Augustus replied. “I’ve not seen the princess beyond the occasional glimpse in the palace halls. She remains hidden away. We likely won’t even see her face on her wedding day, if he ever deigns to unleash her upon the Court.”
“An arranged marriage seems more likely,” Mother commented. Augustus grunted in agreement.
“How old is she now?” I dared in the silence that followed.
“A bit younger than the two of you.” The King’s Poet gestured at Aubrey and me with his glass. “Sixteen, I believe.”
“Will he debut her?”
A shrug is all the reply my mentor offered.
What kind of grief would drive a man to hide away his only child? What kind of life must that poor, secluded girl lead? With no other legitimate heirs, Selice was the sole candidate to inherit the throne when her father died. And yet she was never seen in public, never brought to formal hearings in the throne room or sighted at social events. The young princess had been a mystery since the day she was born.
The day her mother died.
Our appointment at the Oristei estate came and went. Lord Reyus and his wife Amelie were gracious hosts, though his watchful gaze unsettled me. A long history lay between our two Houses, and I sensed a hopefulness in my parents that did nothing to put me at ease. Ulrich and Feran were pleasant young men, gifted with all the grace and surprisingly little of the good looks so commonly associated with their name. Few scions of the Great Houses could be considered ugly, but they certainly weren’t the most attractive boys I’d ever seen. How their ruggedly handsome father and delicately featured mother had produced such awkwardly proportioned offspring eluded me. Nevertheless, I did my part to display my wit and grace, always accompanied by the cloak of humility. I liked them well enough, but I think my parents recognized my indifference, as they did not press me about further visits to the Oristei estate, though the invitations came.
Along with them came solicitations from many other Houses, quite a few of which we accepted. Not all, though. It was imperative to gain visibility without appearing desperate. I left the selections to my mother and found the vast majority of our outings quite enjoyable. The noble Houses contained many perfectly agreeable young men, but none in particular caught my eye and, despite my resolve to fulfill my duty as heir, thoughts of James lingered always in the back of my mind.
The months leading up to the winter solstice put more stress on what little remained of our relationship. Each engagement required a preparatory period in which Mother and I would review the current goings-on of the House we were to be courting. This made our evenings with potential suitors pass more smoothly but required a significant amount of time. Aubrey and I had also resumed our lessons with his father, which seemed to only compound James’ bitterness. All of this left little time for him, with the exception of our morning exercises in the back garden.
It was one such morning when I awoke a bit earlier than usual, the first hints of dawn just barely beginning to lighten the horizon as I donned my sparring gear. The creeping silence of the house made it easy to pick out sounds of movement in the garden. Had James arrived before me? That seemed unlikely. He typically trailed in from his bed long after I was already well into my drills. No, those weren’t his footsteps. Too heavy. Too sure.
As I slipped silently through the door into the shadows of the arcade, I could just barely make out a figure spinning and slashing a twin pair of one-handed swords in devastating patterns. The cycles of drills I’d been taught felt like child’s play in comparison. Quintin’s every movement was precisely calculated, a symphony of deadly efficiency painting the garden with a blur of steel and steaming breath.
I thought to speak, to make my presence known before he turned to catch me spying, but the words stalled in my throat at the sound of the door opening at my back. James’ boots halted abruptly a few paces behind. I glanced over my shoulder to greet him, only to be met with poorly-concealed suspicion tightening his mouth to a thin line.
The sound of metal scraping into leather drew my gaze back to the garden, the Tuvrian sheathing his swords with practiced ease. Pale blue eyes, drawn by the sound of James’ entry, had spotted me lurking in the shadows. His expression hardened and he murmured something indecipherable under his breath, likely a curse of some kind aimed at me for gawking. I was almost glad he didn’t bother to offer any obeisance as he stalked past and disappeared into the house.
The air seemed lighter once he was gone. I realized with a pang of irritation that I’d flattened myself against a pillar to make way for him as he left. James had noticed, too, and read something other than discomfort in the gesture. He pushed past me brusquely, crossing to take up his usual spot on the other side of the courtyard. His blade rang free, a sharp sound that echoed off the frozen stone walls. There he waited, poised with his sword at the ready, that freckled face hard and bitter.
I should have known better than to match him that morning. I should have seen that anger and turned and walked away, but I didn’t. I shed my cloak and drew my steel, too proud and stupid to back down.
His first advance was unusually aggressive, sparking a flurry of panicked parries while driving me back toward the arcade. When he finally relented, my surprise turned quickly to anger.
“What in the hells is wrong with you?!”
“Sorry,” he grumbled, retreating to his initial position near the fountain. “I got the impression you wanted more of a challenge.”
That boiled my blood. Fine. If he wanted a fight, I’d give him a fight. We’d sparred together almost daily for over a year, but always with restraint, neither of us wishing to accidentally harm the other. This bout contained no such precautions. We hurled our anger at one another with every reckless swing, bashing at each other with all the pent-up resentment that had festered between us over the past few months. His biting comments, my inattentiveness, the unavoidable prospect of my marriage to another man; all of it poured out into the cold morning air.
Eventually, my guard faltered and my block didn’t quite turn his thrust far enough to the side. I yelped as his blade sliced into my ribcage. Horrified, he backed off immediately, hands raised in a placating gesture.
“Gods, Elivya, I didn’t mean-”
“Didn’t you?” I snarled, the pain only amplifying the red-hot fury coursing through my veins. His bloodless face offered no reply. I flung my blade to the ground at his feet, spat on the frozen grass between us, and stormed off toward the kitchen, clutching my side.
Shera let out a horrified squeak when she saw the blood and immediately ran off to fetch Greta. The two returned to find me seated on a bench near the scullery hearth, swearing and snarling like a wounded dog.
“Quiet down,” the round woman clucked, unrolling a leather pouch to reveal a variety of medical supplies. “You’ll wake the whole house, carrying on like that.”
Once they’d peeled my tunic from me, Shera’s grim expression told me without looking that it was bad enough to need stitches, a deduction confirmed when Greta pulled a gleaming needle and catgut from her pouch of supplies. I took a moment to make a list of the various ways I would throttle James the next time we crossed paths. Mindful of Greta’s scolding, I did so silently inside my head.
“Best look away,” she warned, barely giving me time to do so before the sharp pinch of the needle pierced the edge of my freshly-cleaned wound. My stomach heaved at the tugging sensation that followed, and I was glad I’d not eaten yet that morning. As she wove my sundered flesh back together one agonizing stitch at a time, Greta took the opportunity to berate me for my foolishness, pointing out the vast array of activities more appropriate to my station that would never result in such an injury.
“There,” she said when it was finally done. With a snip of her immaculate scissors and an imperious nod, she rattled off a series of instructions and left to fetch some
herbs for a pain-numbing tea.
Shera quickly took her place on the bench beside me, a large roll of bandages in hand. I shied away from the sympathy on her face, preferring to glare at the crackling flames and cling to my lingering anger as a ward against the chill. The latter crept through the stone walls to nip at my bare torso, but the throbbing in my side distracted me enough to not feel the cold – or hear the sound of heavy steps approaching.
“James might be an idiot, but he cares about you,” Shera murmured, unrolling the muslin. “I’m sure he didn’t-”
Her words cut short with a tiny, strangled sound, her sudden stiffness drawing my eyes from the fire. She wasn’t looking at me, though. I craned my head to follow her gaze to the doorway behind me and spotted the source of her dismay. My father’s Tuvrian hovered on the threshold, unmoving, seemingly trapped between retreating and holding his ground.
Perhaps it was the ordeal of the stitching that left me so inexplicably unbothered by my own state of undress. Though the angle did conceal my most personal bits, there was still more of me on display than any man but James had ever seen. Why it never crossed my mind to go scrambling for my shirt, I’ll never know.
Pale blue eyes stared back at me, my abandoned sword in his hand. Quintin didn’t move, didn’t speak. Neither did I, holding that icy gaze as though I could meet the challenge of his disapproval with simple stubbornness. I knew why he detested me so. To a Tuvrian, the only good kind of woman is a silent, obedient one. I would never be either of those things, but I wasn’t about to apologize for it – wasn’t about to shrink beneath that cold regard. So I held my ground, unflinching, for the handful of silent breaths that passed between us.
After a moment, he averted his eyes, laid the blade reverently upon the table, and left.
My mother was furious upon learning of the accident and demanded James be sent back to Laezon immediately. Father must have talked her out of it since no such order was issued and my temperamental companion remained. To me, my father only offered one of his enigmatic glances that suggested the entire incident was my fault.
I avoided James, which was no difficulty seeing as my social engagements and resumed studies filled most of my time. I would have kept the whole thing a secret from Aubrey, but he noticed my stiffness and pulled the tale from me at our next lesson. He, too, was furious, but I brushed it off with an aloofness I did not truly feel.
Midwinter approached quickly, and with it the Yule Gala. Yule is, above all, a celebration of the turning point at which the sun begins to reclaim the sky and drive away the winter. As the City of Light, as Adulil’s city, as the seat of the royal House of His blood, the return of the sun is heralded with immense fanfare in Litheria, from the slums of Dockside to Crofter’s Castle.
Mother had another gown commissioned for me, though this time without my input. With my head spinning with the gossip of Court and the current events of the Houses I was courting, I couldn’t have cared less. Before I realized, the solstice was upon us and Greta was spilling into my room, arms full of a bundle wrapped and tied, round face aglow with excitement. Shera, Poppy, and Ellen squealed with glee and tore open the packaging to reveal the dress. To my surprise, the gown was white. Not the soft, creamy ecru of a debut gown, but a crisp, bright, cold white as blinding as fresh snow. Asymmetrical layers dripped with delicate tendrils of crystal beads, the bodice cut straight across to leave my neck and shoulders bare.
“That’s not all, Miss Elivya,” called Poppy, holding out a small wooden chest. Beneath the lid lay matching gloves and a collar of crystals so cleverly wrought that one could barely see the wires holding it together. They made a fuss, as young women are wont to do. When all was said and done and I inspected myself in the mirror, I was quite pleased with the result.
The girls had wound my dark locks into an elegant updo of curls accented with crystal-headed pins. The bodice of the gown fit immaculately, despite my bandage, and the cascade of silken layers flowed and glistened without being gaudy. I hesitated at the collar of crystals, disliking blatant ostentation, but Greta shook her head and insisted, pointing out that it distracted from the broadness of my shoulders.
Hm.
Crofter’s Castle fairly glowed that night, white banners flying en masse, emblazoned with the golden sun of Adulil. Large fires roared in iron stands in the palace courtyard, making the frigid distance from the carriage to the entryway much easier to bear. I was still glad for my cloak, though, and relinquished it to the liveried attendant with a touch of regret.
The massive staircase that descended into the ballroom had been wrapped with glittering garlands, the whole immense chamber awash in candlelight. I followed my parents down the steps on the decorous arm of a faceless Court attendant, the crier’s voice announcing us to an indifferent crowd below. We’d barely made it halfway when Aubrey bounded up the stairs with a glowing grin.
“That will do, my good man,” he dismissed, claiming my arm. “Many thanks.” The liveried squire stalked off, muttering under his breath.
“You must be looking to make a scandal, Aubrey,” I teased as he steered me down the remaining steps.
“Oh, please. What’s the Yule Gala without a bit of gossip?” After suffering a sharp look of warning from my mother, we disappeared into the throng.
“What have you heard?” I inquired as my friend deposited a glass of wine into my hand.
He sipped his own, eyes darting around the room. “There have been rumors this last week – ah, Leon!”
Resplendent in a deep red doublet, Leon ben Therus shone with goodness that reached his soft hazel eyes. Waves of golden hair framed a lean, handsome face that split into a dazzling smile as he approached. It was no wonder my dearest friend had fallen for this beautiful creature. Though I’d only met him a handful of times, he greeted me warmly as a friend.
“Anything?” Aubrey prompted him after we’d exchanged the usual pleasantries.
“Remy said he saw the High Priestess leaving the royal gardens earlier this evening. And no one has seen the King all day.”
“What about Rishel?”
Leon shook his head. “Not a glimpse of either one.”
“The lady Oristei?” I interjected, puzzling out their exchange. Aubrey turned his half-focused attention to me, gears turning behind his amber eyes.
“The King’s consort in all but name, according to the rumors.”
Leon leaned close. “Word of late-night rendezvous and secret nuptials abound.”
I glanced between them. “Do you think it likely?”
Aubrey shrugged. “It’s certainly possible. Father tells me His Majesty is quite taken with her. Nothing compared to his passion for Cerya, but that was many years ago and Amenon was a young man then. Time and loss wither the hearts of even the most passionate men.”
“Is this gossip, or are you writing a ballad?” Leon teased affectionately.
My peer replied in all seriousness as a sudden lull pierced the din around us. “It would make for a moving tale, to be sure.” I followed his gaze to the entryway stairs, where Amenon stood with a stunning woman on his arm. “As moving as the one our parents witnessed, I’d wager.”
The trumpets that rang out proved wholly unnecessary, as every pair of eyes in that room had already fixed on the King and his escort. Lady Rishel fen Oristei was indeed a beautiful woman, with a curtain of silky russet hair swaying loosely about her delicate face. Layers of sheer fabrics cascaded down her gown, various shades of gold and bronze catching the light. An assortment of bangles clinked softly as the couple descended the staircase. Amidst the sea of heavily decorated nobles, she glowed like a goddess from myth. Though her striking beauty captured the eye, there was also a lightness to Amenon’s demeanor I had never seen before. The King looked more at ease, more whole, the shadows gone from his eyes.
Needless to say, Court rumors were reignited by this latest development, and hushed conversations focused on little else. The assembled
nobility didn’t have long to wait before their suspicions were confirmed. At the height of the evening, as the servants began laying the banquet table with heaping platters, the King rose from his seat on the dais. The room fell abruptly silent.
“My lords and ladies, it is with a glad heart that I welcome you this evening.” His voice resonated richly through the marble hall. “On this, the sacred night of Yule, we celebrate the return of the sun, just as our fathers and their fathers before have for generations beyond memory. The solstice signifies the reemergence of light and joy in our lives, that not only do the nights shorten and the days lengthen, but hope reignites in our midst; hope for the new cycle, hope for a brighter future, hope for a new beginning. That is what I bring you now, my noble countrymen.”
The King turned and offered his hand to Lady Rishel, who rose to stand beside him, gracing him with a loving smile. A diligent servant proffered glasses to them both and we all waited with bated breath.
“Not two hours past, High Priestess Valia administered our marriage vows and bound us to one another in this life.”
A collective gasp was quickly stifled. Nearby, a cluster of golden-haired courtiers exchanged unsettled glances; lesser sons and daughters of the House of Adulil.
“It is fitting, in my purview,” the King pressed on firmly through the murmurs, “that this night celebrate not only the rebirth of our world but also our nation.” His brass eyes fell on those of his distant kin. “Tonight we start anew; we begin a new chapter for our House and for this country.” Amenon’s relatives appeared unconvinced, but the eldest among them ducked his chin slightly in a restrained nod of obeisance. Satisfied, the King took a step back and gestured gracefully to the stunning woman beside him. “May I present my wife, your queen, Rishel Oristei no Adulil.”
Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1) Page 15
