Those sitting at the table rose as the high earl and his wife made their tremulous way along the balcony. Only Seanna remained seated. When the old man finally reached her, she leaned forward and held out her hand. He took it with a surprisingly firm grip and planted a dry kiss. Seanna's skin crawled as his eyes met hers. You're the queen, you have nothing to fear from this worm, she reminded herself. But the man in front of her appeared an elderly wolf rather than a worm: hungry, feral, not caring who he should destroy in the search for his next meal.
"Your Distinction," Seanna said, a false smile stuck to her lips.
"Your Grace," Rask replied. He sat with a sigh of relief. "It has become quite a trial for these old bones to travel those long halls."
"I empathize," Seanna said, patting her belly. "Different causes, same results."
The earl now arrived, dinner began. Course after course of highland foods appeared over Seanna's shoulder: roasted ox legs, medleys of carrots and beets, freshly-caught salmon with scales that almost melted off, berries mixed with heavy creams and spread on sugary bread, cinnamon apples, balls of dough filled with savory lamb, chicken breasts dipped in white gravy...half of it made her want to send praises of delight to the kitchens, but the other half made her gag. I used to love steak, now I can't even smell it without wanting to puke.
Full of food and lolling in their chairs, the nobles soon turned to swapping inane political speeches. Their favorite pastime.
"Lord Bladefell, what do you think of the recent corsair attacks?"
"A travesty, my friend! We should gather all our resources and hunt those wretches down. With my archers and your ships, we'd make the coastlines safe again."
Years of listening to such drivel, plus a full stomach and a kicking child, helped Seanna tune out the nobles' nonsense. She watched the gathering with little interest, judging the ladies' hairstyles or jewelry with a bored glance or trying to decide how easy it would be to hide an entire chicken in a lord's sleeve.
"–I do believe that Manderly has a chance at the position, if only he would spend more time in the Novum itself," the lord Osney Deering said with a shake of his head. Seanna sat up, a pulse of excitement flaring in her chest.
"Does my lord support Predicant Manderly?" she asked.
"Well," Lord Deering drawled, "he does have a certain...rustic appeal, if you will. The commoners seem to adore him. As for myself, I find the whole process to be utterly droll. Holding an election within the Grand Novum for the next Exalt...it hasn't been done in over a century! It's more fascinating to me how effectively the candidates have–"
"It seems to me," Seanna said over him, "that Manderly has the support of the majority of the kingdom, and without resorting to blackmail or bribes. Even as a curate, he walked the slums giving his sandals from his feet and his cloak from his back to those in need. A man such as Manderly would earn money for the Novum through nobles' desire to do good, while Ropaz might spend it all in order to keep his power. What think you, Earl Hjalder?" Seanna asked, turning toward Rask. A flush of pride crept onto her cheeks at what she thought to be a fine argument.
Before Rask could speak, another courtier said, "Ropaz is a good friend of mine! He would never–"
"But Manderly does have the support of the people..." someone else interjected.
They talked over themselves, only snippets of conversation audible over the din. Damn, Rask's just going to let them jabber on.
With utter casualness, Rask leaned forward, plucked a grape from his platter, and chewed it slowly, his eyes drifting over the guests. Seanna's sweaty palms gripped her armrests and the nobles quieted as they waited for him to speak.
"My, my. A broad collection of opinions here, and not all of them good," Rask said, his soft voice slithering across the table. "I am perhaps the only person alive here who remembers the last time an Exalt died; a truly tragic waste, but too much mead will do that to a man no matter how holy. He had chosen his replacement, which of course meant that the issue of succession was nonexistent. A historic moment, this, of the Novum predicants choosing one amongst their numbers to lift above all, the closest to the gods any of us could hope to be."
He paused, took a sip from his silver chalice, and smacked his lips. "A good vintage. Now, you ask my opinion, Your Grace, and you must not be angry with me for speaking it plainly. The truth of the matter is, you are as ignorant as a rustic child."
What? Seanna gaped dumbly at him before remembering her station and shutting her mouth.
Rask's bright eyes mocked her as he continued, "Manderly, though a kind man, has no knowledge of politics or the work that goes into running the entirety of our religion. You call him charitable, yet those paths are oft taken by men whose attempts in other areas have failed. Did you know that he once worked to divert donations for the poor back into his novum when his actions brought it to near ruin? It was years ago, of course, but I remember it quite well. Later, he blackmailed brothels into paying him a monthly stipend so he wouldn't send his righteous soldiers after them. That, too, proved unsuccessful. His 'charity' is a last resort, not a deed born from compassion.
"Besides, Ropaz has demonstrated himself to be far superior in negotiating with foreign ambassadors, and has a keen mind for money. The important thing to remember about rustics, Your Grace, is that they only have to think they are being treated well. If they are given their holidays and the occasional tax break, they count themselves fortunate."
"But, Your Distinction–" Seanna interjected.
She only got that far before Rask said loudly, "Of course, how can any of us expect our queen to know the inner workings of religion? The function of layman politics escapes her. A queen, if she knows little of our world, should be seen and never heard. You may carry the king's child, but we all realize that is your only purpose in the court. At least my daughter, the gods bless her grave, knew what Henrik needed and wanted, and provided him with a queen worthy of the title," he sneered. Her eyes focusing on nothing, Seanna swallowed hard and pressed her nails into her palms. The nerve.
Nobles around her snorted, then giggled, then laughed, bursts of mirth echoing in the ravine. Seanna stewed in silence, the earl's words like a knife in her chest. No one, not even Henrik, had ever spoken to her like that before.
"That's better," Rask said with a condescending glare. "Red cheeks become you, as does silence. Your only redeeming quality is your beauty, and that shall fade with time. I wonder what will happen to you when even that has disappeared and your child has outgrown you? The gods be good, you'll meet the same fate as my daughter."
"How dare you!" Seanna gasped. "Only the gods and the king may judge me. I am still your queen!"
"Only they can judge, that is true, but the rest of us can appraise you as we would a fine jewel. Though, in your case, the rusted chain and broken pendant kept in the bottom of the drawer."
I won't hear him insult me any longer. Seanna pushed out her chair, standing as forcefully as she could. She earnestly hoped she seemed magnificent rather than petulant. "I thank you for the fine dinner, Your Distinction, though I found the conversation trite and offensive. Good night."
As Seanna swept away from the table, she heard the courtier's whispers and Earl Hjalder's barking laugh. Hot tears poured from her chin onto the floor, trod seconds later by her slippers. I'll be the most beloved queen D'Ehsen has ever known, she thought savagely, her hand closing in a fist over her belly. Even more than Fleta vecking Rask. My son will rule a kingdom shadowed by his mother's legacy.
Chapter Ten
Gwen
WILL HE be kind to me? Gwen thought as she sat at her wedding feast's groaning tables. Mother told me that some good men become monsters when they are married. Please, Rebir, let him be good to me. Let him treat me well.
The whirlwind of their ceremony had left her little time for thought: The predicant gestured to Gwen. She stepped forward, as did Druam, until each stood beside a basin of water. With her hands in Druam's, she waited for the pr
edicant to place a long ribbon over their heads. As he draped it over their shoulders, she took a deep breath.
"Princess Gwendolyn," the predicant said," invoke the names of your maternal ancestors."
"Mother Sardra, Grandmother Gwendolyn, Great-Grandmother Hidara," Gwen said softly.
"Your Distinction, invoke the names of your paternal ancestors."
Druam intoned, "Father Ephraine, Grandfather Ansel, Great-Grandfather Beniarnyn." As he spoke, a drowsy feeling came over Gwen. She blinked, and it faded. The predicant used the blue ribbon draped around their necks to tie their hands together. Dipping his fingers in the basin, he sprinkled water over their joined hands and said, "By the blessing of Jarico and Milen, I tie the lives of these two people together, sanctifying their union with holy water. From now until their deaths, never to part, may they be of one soul and one heart." The nobles clapped politely for the new Lady Seastone.
The feast, though splendid, held little appeal for Gwen. She barely picked at the quail and quite ignored the mutton. Even the various kinds of loaves, made with all sorts of spices, failed to make her mouth water. Only a handful of fruits and pastries made it to her plate, and these she only nibbled at. Meagre mouthfuls of wine and cordial stuck in her throat. Gwen hoped Druam would be a kind lover, but all men changed once they saw a woman naked, or so her mother had told her years ago. And will I conceive a child tonight that I can tell such things to? She watched the surrounding lords with wary eyes, knowing that soon they would carry her to the bedchamber and rip off her clothes as they went. She wished she could have married at home in Demarren, where there was no such barbaric tradition.
During the dancing, Gwen partnered with a score of lords, all whispering in her ear. Some, a word of congratulations; others, a petulant warning. "You are quite lucky, my lady. He will bring you great happiness." "He cares only for the land and its people; even his brothers could attest to his lack of warmth." The lords became indistinguishable from one another until one, younger than all the rest, took Gwen's hand during the galliar. Long black hair hung around his high cheeks, green eyes met hers unabashedly. His ivory-white hands were soft. A gleaming amulet lay on his chest, a halo of clear gems around a white central stone.
"I'm Mavian Strilu," he said as he guided her around the circle of other dancers.
"My husband's brother?" Gwen asked. The earl had mentioned his younger brother in passing, but this man looked nothing like Druam.
"No," he said with a short laugh. "His cousin. I doubt Xandro would have pulled himself from his books for this affair, and of course Verdon is...well, I really shouldn't speak of it."
"Speak of what?" Gwen was intrigued. The man's name and description sparked a memory, but she couldn't recall it exactly.
"My lord's middle brother vanished years ago. Left, and never returned. But we shouldn't speak of such sad matters on this happy day. Though all the interesting gossip is macabre, isn't it? Some interesting rumors have begun circulating. People say that prowlers have come close to the city."
Gwen laughed. "That's preposterous! How would they hide?"
"Think what you will," Mavian said, a smirk edging into his cheek. "Druam tries to keep the peace, but we all know the prowlers are spreading faster than ever before. It's only a short time before they appear in the city. Besides, they're not as wild as some believe; I've seen them myself, coordinating with each other, plotting, using strategies to stalk and corner their prey. My castle borders on wild lands, and I've watched from the walls as their packs descend on farmers and travelers, always sending my soldiers out too late to help. Quick little bastards."
'He's always studying those prowlers,' Lady Smithen said. 'Sending his men out to find the victims and capture the beasts. Tries to get them alive, so I've heard.' Gwen had overheard the conversation between nobles. 'Why Earl Seastone allows such behavior is beyond me,' Lord Smithen had replied. 'He's not right in the head.' 'Oh, too true, but the earl loves his cousin far too much. I think he dotes on him because of Verdon.' Here and there, Gwen had heard talk about Mavian Strilu, none of it good. Everyone disliked and avoided him, yet he acted friendly to her.
Gwen hadn't much time to think about it. The dance ended abruptly, and bells, like silver chirruping birds, rang out around the gathering. Guests shook them with gusto, excitedly looking between Gwen and Druam. For the new couple, the public festivities had ended; the bedding had come.
A lord caught Gwen around the waist with the blue ribbon, pulling on the silk as if he pulled a horse by the reins. More lords clustered around Gwen and lifted her skirts just enough to grab her lace garter. The victorious noble held it aloft, spinning it around his finger and laughing uproariously. Fingers pulled at Gwen's dress, coming away with the carefully sewn embroidery.
Many hands lifted her aloft to carry her to the bridal chamber. She craned her neck to see the women pushing Druam along, their grasping talons ripping off his tunic. By the time they reached the chamber, Gwen had lost her shoes and stockings.
Finally, the invasive men put her down beside the bed, some jeering at her, others still laughing from the fun of it. Beasts, she thought sourly, reaching up to touch the jagged edges of what used to be her sleeves. And they suffer their own daughters to undergo this humility? Her gown had been ruined, its skirt filled with gaping holes. Druam stumbled into the chamber having fared a little better.
Then Gwen realized that the noblemen had not left. They and a few women filed into a small gallery which had been filled with seats, four rows that rose one above the other. Many more courtiers gathered outside the room, their painted cheeks pushing against each other to see. Am I to be an animal on exhibit, rutting with my mate?
Gwen turned her back to the crowd. They can't see me cry. She bit her lip to keep a wail from escaping. The bed was a large, four-poster thing with curtains all around. On both sides of it, wooden partitions hid the back of the room from view. A servant took her arm and guided her behind one of the partitions. Another took the bed's curtains, drawing them shut to the crowd.
Once hidden from the nobles' eyes, Gwen felt anticipation crawling up her spine and down her arms, a quiver that made goose pimples break out over her dark skin. Her mother had told her that consummation could be a pleasant experience, if the husband took his time and ensured her pleasure. 'But that is very unlikely, my dear. Pleasure is nearly impossible for a woman, so expect it to hurt at the worst and feel awkward at the best.' Despite her mother's warning, Gwen felt a tingle of curiosity.
Her flesh prickled, naked and exposed to the overpowering heat in the room. A fire had been lit on top of all the bodies packed in. With a bow, the maid pulled aside one part of the curtains to hide Gwen's body as she climbed into the bed. Some light filtered into the small space, glowing through the fabric. She waited, shivering despite the heat, for her husband.
The curtains on the other side of the bed opened and Druam entered. His body, pale in the darkness, was long and lean. Dark hair traced down his chest, soft as the down between Gwen's legs.
"Are they still out there?" Gwen whispered, hugging her legs.
"Yes. They'll wait until they hear us finish." Druam's voice was gentle, though his eyes ran over her. His thumb brushed her cheek and caught one of her tears. He made no move to get on top of her.
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping away stray droplets. "I should be grateful, I should be pleasing you–"
He exhaled, a soft snort of amusement. "You're a virgin in her wedding bed. I'd be more surprised if you didn't cry. We have to do this, but I want you to promise me that you'll stop me if you ever feel mistreated."
Gwen nodded.
Tendrils of warmth followed his fingers across her body. Her stomach fluttered as he traced across it. His hand slid over her hip bones and thighs, reaching for the darkness between her legs. A sudden intrusion inside made her gasp, filling a space she hadn't known she possessed. Was this it? She didn't know it could feel so...so strange.
Gwen tensed, her whole
body tightening, her arms rigid on the pillows, her legs crunching up against him. The full feeling went away, and she felt a warm wetness brush against her thigh. Remember what Mother said: I have to please him. I have to do this. "Keep going," she said through gritted teeth.
"Try to relax. Please, I know this frightens you, but it'll hurt less."
To do as Druam said seemed difficult, but as he caressed her and whispered sweet things, Gwen's body melted back into the bed. Not completely, but enough that he tried again, moving his fingers inside her. Sometimes, he would hit a place that made her shudder, a new feeling of delight welling up from a hidden spot.
Some minutes later, he levered himself on top of her. He hesitated, and she said, "I'm ready, I think. Do it."
The pain Gwen expected didn't come; instead, she felt an odd pressure against her bladder and a stretching sensation where he entered her. She wondered if she would ever become used to the fullness, and how any woman could take delight in this event. She let him take her legs and wrap them around his hips. That tingling warmth again spread from inside her, causing her thighs to twitch against him, her heart to race. It felt nice. Not the divine ecstasy her mother had spoken of, but certainly a small, good feeling.
The bed frame creaked ever so slightly, the pillows and blankets soaked with Druam's sweat. Gwen didn't know for how long he moved inside her. From outside the curtains, she heard once more the nobles' polite clapping, and remembered that this had been a spectacle for them.
Druam's hand found itself on her leg, resting there in a private supplication, as the sound of many footsteps and low voices signaled the nobles' retreat. At last, the door closed, and Gwen was alone, truly alone, with her husband.
"Is this where I'll sleep now?" she asked in the burdening silence.
"No," he answered, his hand still on her thigh. "This chamber was readied specially for tonight. You will still have your chambers, which I'll visit regularly, or you may come to mine. This room, I expect, will be given to guests paying a high price to sleep where the earl's marriage was consummated."
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