Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  But she would not be a failure here, not when the opportunity was so golden. A chance to marry into a royal house that would bring a strong ally to Thellemere's bosom.

  "He will take my maidenhead. I can make that happen. I will enchant him, big brother. I will. But..." The situation was worth considering. Copulation did not always equate to a child. Honour and propriety did not matter yet, but would when he was forced to take her as his bride.

  She gazed upwards through fair lashes to the sibling she adored more so than any other. He was proud of her plan, and like a pup fed praise and tweets she shone with a renewed enthusiasm.

  "But I know of another who could help me."

  A'zur gave a look of inquiry.

  Astrid closed the gap.

  Without hesitation, she lightly cupped the weight of his manhood in her hand. She had not taken the time to imagine what it would feel like beneath the layers of clothing, yet she did like the mass within her palm.

  Whatever outward response he may have had in turn of her suggestion was mired by the way he stiffened against her, his breath hitching inward. For but an instant, something savage devolved behind the grey panes of his gaze. Heady and restrained, pained. Perhaps not pained, but a horrible confliction that stole away the image of the brother she knew so well, turning him into a man who appeared simply starved.

  She made no move to retreat, for her hand would remain for as long as he pleased, as long as he could bear, for she was quite prepared to cup it like a valued treasure for the remainder of the evening.

  A'zur could put the baby in her.

  "The baby could look like his or the mother, yes? The baby does not have to look like the father."

  Now she was certain it was pain in his eyes, then a striking disgust. "You would have me continue where the prince left off? And what then—how soon after? Before the prince even pulls up his breeches?"

  She simply could not believe he was asking such a thing. A plan with paths worth taking if there was failure had been presented clearly to him.

  "But... but... Well, you will not be waiting outside the door and slide in as soon as he is done of course. You will not be hidden beneath the bed like some castle cat. Don't be silly." She gave a shrug of her shoulders. How was she supposed to know when he was to do it? Did he want the exact time? The exact date? How long it would take and how many thrusts he would make?

  "If I have my monthly after I presume that I will not be preg-" She hesitated, for it was the condition she had to be in for the plan to work. It was merely a term to her pertaining to an experience she had not yet encountered, yet aspired to have. "Pregnant. Then you can do it."

  Her brother was just full of new expressions this day, for now he appeared...broody. "It still does not sit well with me."

  With a sigh she removed her hand from his privates, yet reveled in the remaining warmth in her palm, along with the ghost of the weight as if he were still located there. "I mean no disrespect to you. It is for the good of the family. You can close your eyes and pretend it is not me, I promise. Just imagine what prosperity it would bring to us." She reached for his hand and placed it against her belly. "The fate of our house rests in here regardless. The child will be loved, you know how much I would love a child. We would secure an alliance quickly, much faster than if we had tarried. A'zur, just think of how well we will do!"

  "You are too beautiful for me to look away. As well, I did not take offence. I sought confirmation and confirm you did." The moue on his mouth said otherwise, if not his next words. "However, I do believe it deserves more thought."

  Her expression softened. "Once I am with child, then I shall drop to my knees before his father and inform him of my predicament. King Gregor would not darken the reputation of his house. The marriage would go ahead and the baby would simply come earlier than expected. That is all there is to it." Astrid moved to plant a kiss upon her brother's cheek. "You would defend my honour, wouldn't you?"

  Again, he did not answer her question. "Excellent strategy." He was deflecting. More unconvincing staring, toneless inflection. "Any objection on my part is but my own jealous inhibition."

  "If we could have the liberty to be together," she started as her voice grew fainter. "To be together as Ethan and Eleanor can be one, I think I would be the happiest girl in the world. To be your wife and have your babies. I wonder, if I do bear your child and pass it off as the prince's, whether I will feel happy or sad when I see glimpses of you upon their little face."

  At that, he withdrew from her, utterly and wholly resigned from the discussion. "I do not think that children matter with us, not when they are destined to be but mere pieces in another's game—just as we are."

  Before she could interrupt with her certain objection, he was peddling back to the same lone chaise in the corner, eyes closed off, leather binding back to stealing his attention. But not before he spared her one final glance and poor attempt at humour: "Besides, I do believe I see the start of a blemish mark upon your other cheek."

  8

  ~ PRINCE TRISTIAN ~

  Start of the festivals...

  "How marvelous to be sat oceanside like this," said the rather corpulent noble as she picked at her meal with fingers made primarily of adipose.

  Black, sparkling waters lolled against the shores down below the lift. Its song was a sailor's lullaby and the skies were on fire. Firework after firework, launched high above the waters, its explosions worrying the birds and critters away from the large feasts. Everywhere one might turn their head was the dazzling display of sparked fire. The firework wheel, flinging embers around the tables, around the outskirts, around the stone guards in large supply. The firework pikes, protruding from the cooked bellies of one dead bird or another, its flares blue and green and white.

  He hated the colours.

  "Splendid idea to host the gathering in the night, though I hear it is a means to hide the king's failing eyesight," returned a garrulous, sharp-featured woman.

  Laughter, merriment, whistles of the fireshow, all lit the night and filled basic minds with wonder and joy.

  Prince Tristian sipped his fizzing cider, drinking in the bodies loitering the large terrace as well. Everywhere was the loud shout of origins, the cry to be noticed and praised. Men and women wore their clothing and colours like banner flags. Lavender-striped trousers, white-fringed epaulettes, ceremonial shawls and those dark neck gears from the eastern lands.

  He really hated the colours.

  He hated being here.

  Another sip.

  The woman sitting at the table, she with skin to spare around the flub of her jowls, made a noise that may have been anything from a laugh to a mating cry.

  Another sip.

  "Oh, rosebud, there you are!"

  And the night persisted. He worked his lips into a smile and turned to his Aunt Charleé. "It's been too long, dearest auntie."

  She was wearing that obnoxious swallow-tail dress that billowed behind her, a constant threat of tripping cast onto all who trailed her. The front was worse, a great white taffeta layering which smooshed into him—as did the chest that earned her a marriage to the most powerful duke in the borderlands—as she gathered him in a tight hug.

  He returned it firmly, ignoring the glances from women and men alike at the table.

  "My sister told me you might run from this party."

  "Me? Flee? Never. You know me better."

  "Oh, I know you hardly, rosebud." She'd called him that ever since the day he was born, he was told, saying that his cheeks were the rosiest of the roses in the bushes. Now she pulled back, squeezed his arms. "Where is your sash and belt—uck, and why must you insist on this dreadful shade of mauve and gold? It does terrible things to your gorgeous eyes."

  He looked down at his dress coat, the gentle dark shade and the white shirt beneath, spilling at the neck in a silken fountain of frills. "Rhenan suggested it would look good."

  She snorted. "You believed him? By the way, where is th
at troublemaker?"

  "Off drinking himself blind, I'm sure."

  "And why are you here, skulking in the corner of the rafters like a bat?"

  "I'm avoiding my duty until I cannot anylonger." Another sip. Was this even cider he drank? He hardly tasted a thing.

  Aunt Charleé swatted him on the shoulder. "Nonsense! Petra told me you were giving her a hard time. I did not know to what extent."

  "This extent."

  "Oh, they are not demons!" That earned her more than a few glances, coughs, scoots away. "In fact, my husband spoke with them and they were quite the polite and dazzling pair. You should hear their voices, rosebud."

  He was sure it sounded like creatures from the deep.

  "So strange, yet oddly soothing." She swatted him again. "Go sit with them as your mother instructed before they bring out the pie."

  He dropped the half-empty glass onto a passing servant's tray and looked at his aunt blandly. "I'd rather not."

  Charleé was an exact replica of her younger sister, only her eyes were darker and her skin clearer. But just like Petra, her looks were wrapped in dynamite when she willed it. She gave him one that stirred him deep to the bones and said, "Go sit with them or your new duty will be babysitting dear Jocelyn's brood."

  Tristian was walking before the sentence had even finished. He absolutely abhorred that child—which may not have been saying much, as children in general were not his favourite. They belonged with their mothers. Especially Jocelyn's.

  The white-clothed tables were arranged in tranquil rows, circular denoting nobles, hexagonal denoting royalty of one branch or another, all tailing from the long table at the head of the terrace, where the king and queen sat speaking to those granted the privilege of proximity. He was headed to the far back, and perhaps there was some comfort in this, as those heretics would not assume they were of a caliber to be seated closer to his parents.

  The sizzle and pop of the firework pikes emitted a higher weaseling noise as the tables led back where they were not so oceanside and sky disappeared beneath the half-protruding balcony of the higher level. It was quieter here still and he knew he'd neared the table when the cluster of bodies and gossip began to thin, until he saw less officious faces and more...stern images. Those with political aspirations who did not waste time with the reckless and foolish of the court.

  Many afforded him a curt nod. Others hardly glanced his way. Grudges held against his father, transferred to him.

  To them, Tristian couldn't help but allow his mouth to form a smile, his eyes to narrow in pleasure. Where there were grudges and hatred, there was a source of power to be hated.

  The idea lifted his spirits a notch, so that when he finally arrived to the table his mother had repeatedly stressed to him, he was not glaring and cold.

  The table was hexagonal, as were the other royal seats, but this one held but two occupants when made for eight and it was just as he arrived that Tristian watched the male at the table, Prince A'zur he believed, stamp out the flare of the firework corked from their capon, as though it offended him.

  It definitely offended him. He hated the colours, but who was this male to hate the fireworks as well?

  "Prince Tristian," the male greeted, and there was something missing in the voice. Lack of inflection. Neither menace nor worship, glee nor sadness. Impassive acknowledgment. The young man lacked colour, just as did his eyes, which were blank sheets of grey as they collided with his own. He wore what looked to be a high quality black leather tunic with inlaid burls of deep purple, a clutch that instigated the solid, hard physique beneath it. At the neck, more with colours and origins, was the peek of a purple collar. Ruddy brown hair was curled but diligently maneuvered from his foreign image. Pale image.

  Never before had he the displeasure of seeing a full-blooded Lymerean outside of loose concept art from painters who went off of descriptions rather than experience. The paintings always showed white, vampyric creatures with unnaturally blue eyes and gaunt, spindly forms.

  The artists needed to be removed at once, as they were hardly accurate.

  But then Tristian looked to the right of the foreigner, and decided the artists needed to be hanged alongside all of their prodigy, for the girl seated beside this 'Prince A'zur' was a far cry from vampyric, but born of beauty itself.

  Flaxen locks tumbled over her left shoulder, and he journeyed its length almost to her hips. Her figure, suggested as trim yet womanly despite only appearing to be on the cusp of what one might consider that age. Dimples exposed as she revealed a straight set of white teeth in the small part of rose coloured lips.

  Like a poised and proper young lady, the girl rose to her feet and offered a swift curtsy. She crossed the wrong foot over the other and did not glance down to his own as was wont of the servant girls. Rather, she gazed up at him with an icy regard that seemed to melt as the seconds passed. A smile spread across her delicate features.

  "You are Prince Tristian. I saw you before, only I was quite sad as I never got to introduce myself. Now, I think there is no need for sadness. My name is Astrid."

  Aunt Charleé was right. This female's tongue was fashioned of silk fibres, breaking apart his common language and whispering something admittedly delightful into it, bringing him to wonder which of them spoke it first. Their history was too prehistoric.

  Of its own accord, he smiled and noted he was intrigued. The genuine brand, for the girl was strangely peculiar. He could not be sure, but he could see through her in that instance and what it was he gathered was a fragility seen in that of insecure things, or perhaps a hummingbird with its posh blue fluttering wings and rapid heartbeat.

  And speaking of blue... "God Himself must have collected the stars and layered them in your eyes, Princess Astrid."

  The brother made a noise that may have been incredulity or a simple clearing of the throat.

  Simplicity did not exist.

  "Won't you join us?" the boy offered, and Tristian decided he did not like him. He saw cunning behind the steel eyes. Calculation. Intrusion. A direct contrast to the feather of a girl beside him.

  But Tristian did sit, maintaining the easy facade of geniality as was second nature. "When they told me members of the Misseldon household would be of attendance, I was regrettably puzzled, as I did not know the name."

  The boy was excellent in appearing unprovoked. Or maybe too dense to identify the prod.

  "Prince A'zur. My sister and I arrived the evening prior. What is regrettable is Redthorn's first prince's absence, for you see, my dear sister, she was indeed so eager to make your acquaintance. Rumours of your magnificence reach even that of our snowy, small world."

  Tristian could not help but glance to the girl again. And so he held his hand out for hers.

  She gazed at it as if she had never seen such a thing before, then, steadily, she bit down upon her lower lip. A portrait of innocence. Then, as though finally understanding the gesture, she extended a dainty hand and placed it tenderly into his own.

  No words from her, just the fabricated gleam of a shy smile.

  A patient tip of his head was offered to her, as he mused over how simple the pair were.

  Simplicity did not exist.

  Her hand was small, inexplicably cool despite the sultry, gentle heat. Tristian took his thumb and glazed it over her knuckles before rising the slightest and kissing all five of them. "You are royalty, are you not?" he inquired upon sitting.

  She followed suit in sitting as she reacted to each kiss as though it was life's greatest wonder. A surprise for such a young thing.

  "As royal as your hair is dark and eyes are magnificent." She studied them, or rather, stared deep into his gaze. "I hope it would not offend you if I was to say that they are beautiful."

  It surprised him then, how effortless it all was. Made him recall his behaviour at the dinner table and think it entirely ludicrous, for the pair before him were but vermin. Scuttled from between their glacial homeland rocks in search of a life
beyond that which they had known. Had their hearts grown too heavy with their sins? Perhaps too black with their practices. Did they journey here to eradicate the foul presence?

  Did this girl seek absolution through him, offering what little she had: compliments.

  "It does not offend me at all," he assured. "But if you are royal, you do not curtsy. It may signify inferiority, and is that the message you wish to convey to the vultures around you?"

  He did not look to the neighbouring tables, but each and every one of them seated vermin just like the two before him. Those who would think to snivel in his kingdom's affairs, its favour, its prosperity.

  "Manners do not translate to inferiority," said A'zur. "And I am afraid our customs differ from your own."

  "You would enter another's land without learning its ways?"

  "I know your customs well."

  "She," He notched his head to the hummingbird-vulture. "Does not."

  The prince looked away...apologetically. "There is much my dear sister does not know of, for she is of a shallow mind that speaks without guidance."

  "Is that so?" he murmured to himself, unsure where this frivolous torrent of intrigue originated. Did they abstain from teaching their women up in those northern mountains? Could they be taught?

  He looked back to the icy slates of her soft gaze.

  The girl did not glance aside to her brother, despite her ignorance being the topic of conversation.

  "I..." She hesitated then glanced down at their still-joined hands, causing him to belatedly release it. Their gazes locked once more. "I admit ignorance and perhaps I should have made a greater effort to educate myself. I thought that perhaps customs would be best learned following my witnessing of the great royals of this land. Especially yourself, Prince Tristian."

  His inhale was large and satisfied. Even the foreign and regal were aware of his name and status. "You are wrong in your assumption, I regret to say."

  Servants passed their table and the brother made a summoning motion that was all too confident and entitled, reminding Tristian of his mother and father's will. All who attended this festival wanted something, and surely it was not to inflate his self-image.