“Your father may have done such a thing, but you are not Cassen’s property. Slavery is forbidden in these lands, and no man can own a woman.”
No, thought Annora. Nor can naivety be cured during a single meal. She smiled in thanks at the sentiment.
CRELLA
“Crella, how pleasing to see you again.”
Crella had waited at the door while a pair of lady servants fetched the man of the estate. He was dressed in the richest of cloth; a thick velvet in deep hues of royal blue and purple constructed his doublet and matching trousers. Crella found herself wondering how someone would be able to remain cool under such extravagant and unnecessary luxury, but quickly scolded herself for thinking the way her husband would. I am a highborn Adeltian. Of that I must not forget.
A glance around the anteroom made her almost cringe at the gaudy display of opulence. Pleated fabric covered walls framed with molding bound in tooled leather, above which the ceiling portrayed idyllic scenes engraved into hardwood. The room feels not unlike a coffin, she thought, also noticing that the pleasant outdoor chill had been replaced by a stuffy heat.
It was a mystery to her how these Adeltian nobles seemed to live so much more lavishly than her, when it was she who married the conqueror, and they who were the conquered. Crella had no misgivings about King Lyell. He was a cruel and terrible man who had thrown her aunt from the heights of the Throne, but as she stared at the display before her, she could not help but wonder why it was that he did not take for himself all that she saw. Lyell is either the most astute or idiotic of conquerors to have allowed the Adeltian nobles to retain so much of their wealth.
“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” the man continued.
He was Lord Junton. Although stripped of his title after Lyell’s conquest, those of the Adeltian elite still appreciated the former viscount as such.
“Far too long,” Crella said, unconvinced by her own words. She had never really known the man, just spoken with him briefly at banquets and the like, but he had reached out to her several times to extend friendship over the past decade, an offer she had neither rejected nor accepted. He had an air to him similar to Cassen which bothered her. Surely that which offends me in him is not that which I project myself. She tried to put the troubling notion out of her mind. Her husband had had her second-guessing herself ever since the unexpected night they’d shared with the tea.
“I pray your husband is recovering well?” Junton motioned for her to walk beside him as they made their way down a corridor. He was a gaunt man with skin aged beyond his years. Though by no means attractive, plenty a young maiden had swooned over him due to his wealth and presumed power.
“Yes, he is a resilient man,” Crella said. “And your wife, Lady Beyla. Is she well?”
Crella had expected to meet Beyla at the door of their home, as it was Adeltian custom to be first welcomed by the lady of an estate. Crella remembered her to have been a young woman of great beauty years prior, when she had married the far older Junton, and Crella was eager to see if time had been kind to her.
“That she is.” Junton led her through a doorway into a massive room. “Your son has been a most-welcome guest at our estate these past few days,” he continued, seeming eager to change the topic. Junton turned toward his left, profiling a thin curving nose, almost comical in appearance, past which Crella saw Stephon crouched at the hearth. Her son was busy poking at the burning embers with an iron rod, making sparks fly from the disturbance.
The boy loves anything with the capacity to destroy. It was an observation she had made before, but she allowed herself to believe it a positive trait for one who must someday rule.
“I am pleased to hear that, Lord Junton,” she said. She hesitated before including his phantom title, as it was somewhat treasonous to refer to him as such, but after all he had done for her and Stephon it was the least she could do to show her appreciation and respect. “It is with regret then, that, as I am sure Stephon has told you, we must be leaving for Westport on the morrow.” The date had been pushed back given Alther’s injury, but both he and Crella were eager to leave at this point. It was unavoidable, and further delay might upset the king.
Stephon tossed the iron poker carelessly toward a corner, making a clamor and depositing more ash on the already-dirtied stone floor. Crella was appalled by the display, wondering how her son could have forgotten so quickly that he was a guest here. Junton did not seem the least bit offended, however—if anything he appeared pleased. Stephon stood, brushed off clothing that Crella did not recognize as his own, and approached her with an autocratic stride.
“I will not be leaving, Mother.” Stephon spoke with all the dignity of a king addressing a servant.
Not wishing to make a scene in front of their host, Crella merely frowned at her son.
“I will leave you two in private to discuss. It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Crella. You and yours are always welcome at our estate.” After his words, Junton exited as promised.
After a moment the two were alone in a room that seemed Stephon was far more comfortable in than was Crella. “What exactly do you mean, Stephon? And you should act with more civility when a guest in someone’s home.” She spoke with caution in case anyone might be eavesdropping through closed doors.
“I will not be leaving for Westport. The place is a slum not fit for the heir to the Adeltian Throne. You’ve said so yourself. Cassen has arranged for me—”
“Cassen?” Crella interrupted. “I told you to stay away from that man. He is not to be trusted.”
Stephon gave her a conceited snort. “Mother, please. I would hardly call him a man, and believe me when I tell you, the duchess is no more immune to my charms than are any of the flippant girls that compete for my affection.” The shrewd smirk Stephon wore appalled her. It was true, Stephon was received quite well by the young women at balls and events, but what else could be expected from the only boy with both Adeltian blood and a claim to the throne? As for the prospect of him charming Cassen, the thought revolted her to the point of losing control.
Crella’s palm met Stephon’s cheek with a crack, and she waited for him to retreat like he always did and submit to her will. But this time he did not. Without moving his head from the way it had been turned from the slap, Stephon slowly raised a pointed finger, pausing dramatically. He still did not look at her while he addressed her, as if his doing so might provoke him to violence.
“Mother, I will forgive you that, your final assault upon me. You are a woman, and as such are given to rash bouts of stupidity and childishness not befitting your advanced age.” Now his eyes met hers, and she saw his fury. “But I warn you, should you attempt to strike me again, you will not enjoy the consequences.”
Crella was too taken aback to respond. She studied her son, desperate for some sign of the little boy she once knew. She flashed to the memory of the time she had first noticed his behavior changing from pure innocence to questionable morality. Crella had a fondness for bantam wolves, a breed of stunted dog that grew to the size and likeness of a wolf pup and no larger. As a child, she had always had two or three of the long-haired canines in her care, and that had continued until Stephon was a boy of six years. He’d come to her swearing vengeance on one of her pets, promising to skin it for nipping his hand. Crella tried to explain to him, not for the first time, that no animal likes to have its tail yanked, but in looking in Stephon’s eyes she knew her words had no effect. She decided it would be best to give away her pets rather than risk the inevitable escalation.
“Cassen has spoken to the king and arranged for me to remain in Eastport as his apprentice. I will learn to do what Alther cannot, manage a city. I will no doubt teach Cassen a great many things as well, but I will not be fool enough to show him all my tricks. Lyell was quick to agree, knowing full and well that left with Alther, I would learn nothing.” Stephon paused a moment as if to ponder the depths of his own intellect. “I may have done our kingdom a
disservice by not striking him with something more substantial than a vase. I understand your desire to not look a harlot, but continuing to pretend that he is my father is unforgivable.”
Crella could not bring herself to comprehend Stephon’s comments. How he was able to so nonchalantly accuse her of adultery and speak of murdering his father, she could not understand. She had never before known Stephon to wish to injure Alther and had believed her son had only attacked him in her defense. Cassen, Junton, or both were likely manipulating the boy to best suit their own schemes. I should never have sent him here. She wanted to slap him into sense, but she now truly feared his retaliation.
“And on the subject of Redrivers men, are you aware of what His Grace—that disgusting old man—did at the most recent ball? To my half-sister, your daughter?” Stephon spat the question as if his mother had somehow been complicit.
Crella had heard of it and was equally disgusted; however, she saw no reason to push her son further down this destructive line of thought. “He merely danced with the girl, as fathers often do with daught—”
“How dare you make excuses for that deviant,” Stephon interrupted, raging. “Blood relation or not, that is his granddaughter, and he made advances upon her as would any suitor. It is repugnant. I would not blame the Adeltian masses, should they revolt in reaction to a deed so poorly done.”
There were ears everywhere, and her son was openly speaking treason—a thing normally best dealt with by turning heel and distancing oneself from the speaker. Crella still could see the face of her servant executed for the same crime, her expression frozen in despair, her eyes forever accusing Crella of being her informer. How much more gruesome a sight would it have been had she seen it in actuality and not only in her imagining? Would she force herself to witness Stephon’s impalement?
Crella drove the thoughts off, along with her fears of his potential for reprisal. “You do not know what you are saying. Your words are not your own. You have been made to believe things—”
“I have been made to believe things? Is your hypocrisy boundless?” Stephon now had a dangerous mirth mixed with his fury that threatened assault.
“Your grandfather is the king,” she said, meeting his fury with her own. Strike me if you must, but you will hear my words. “And you will respect and obey him so long as he is as such.”
A mischievous and sinister smile spread across Stephon’s face. “I would not expect that old man to rule for so long as you might think, Mother. I know a great deal that you do not.”
Just as he’d finished his statement, Crella heard a heavy pounding at the door punctuated with authoritative shouting.
TITON
Titon spent much of the long trek home thinking of the woman, of the crude ring he’d taken from her corpse. He wanted to be rid of it, fearing it carried with it some taint of malfeasance, but he had nothing else to give Red. He focused instead on his plans that he felt would make up for his lack of real jewelry, and as he discussed them aloud, he felt his spirits lifting.
Titon knew that when his father learned of their achievement he would no doubt be proud of them—both of them for once. Throughout their trip, Decker had tried to make Titon look good among the men by constantly reminding them all of whose idea it was to descend the cliffs. It was so sloppily done, however, that it had only served to make Titon look like a weakling that needed his little brother to prop him up. Despite that, Titon was eager for Decker to reiterate those same boasts when it came time to recount their tales of victory to their father. The man would have no choice but to acknowledge him for his cunning, and though Titon would not fully admit it to himself, he looked forward to finally winning his father’s respect. He also intended to capitalize on that respect.
“With my brother and father’s help, it will not take long to finish the house,” Titon explained to his new friend.
Titon had already drawn up the plans for the structure in his head. The house itself would be rather unique, not requiring any load-bearing internal walls, nor a central chimney which complicated construction of the roof. Titon expected that his father, having built his own home, would doubt it at first, then be forced to recognize its ingenuity as it came together.
“If you need another set of hands,” Arron offered.
“I could use your help,” said Titon. “But that will be after the main structure is complete. The house may not be difficult to build, but the stove will be. I intend to route the hot smoke through metal piping around the home.”
Arron looked at him questioningly.
“I will get more heat from each log burned,” Titon explained. “You will see.”
The two walked at the rear of the group, as Arron was compelled to stay downwind of the others.
“Just as long as you can still cook atop the damn thing,” said Arron. “What was that horrid stew you had planned?”
“Rabbit, carrots, onion stalks, potatoes, chopped parsley, and…tinder berries?”
“It’s the berries that seem wrong. They are so sour.” Arron had concern on his face. “Your father does not use berries in his stew, does he?”
“No. Maybe mushrooms then.”
“That sounds better,” replied Arron. “Surely a stew to win any woman’s heart.” Arron seemed quite willing to humor Titon when it came to the topic of his conquest of Red, though he was likely just happy to have someone to speak to. “My father did far less to steal my mother, and they live together to this day.”
The potential for knowing what had worked for Arron’s father piqued Titon’s interest. He knew little of what really won over women except what he had read in books, which always involved sweeping gestures of chivalry and romance. The men of his clan who had acquired the most favored women did not seem to have followed those methods, however. Everyone knew the story of how his father had taken his Storm Wolf, and as for Keethro, he was just Keethro. The man could have had his choice of any woman in the clan, and rumors were he did quite a fair amount of choosing before making his final selection. It is no wonder he chose Red’s mother in the end, thought Titon. Kilandra and Red had their similarities in appearance.
“Tell me how he won her affections, if you know the tale.”
Arron looked a little embarrassed. “I am not sure it will really meet your standards. Nor can I be sure that it is all truth.”
Titon shrugged. “It cannot hurt to hear it.”
“All right. My father claims he went to her home every day and asked to see her, and every day her mother would be the one to answer the door and tell him to go away. He was a tanner’s son, same as I, and apparently her mother did not want her daughter with such a man. On the seventh day, her father answered the door instead and told him to piss off or something to that effect. So my father punched him in the face, barged into the home, and left with the girl who then became his wife.”
Titon frowned at Arron. All his people’s stories of courtship were eerily similar, and none seemed to him to be very realistic. Perhaps in the case of a tanner’s son there would need to be some level of violence involved to find a mate, Titon admitted. The prospect of having to battle Keethro, however, was as frightening as anything he could imagine, and he did not see it winning him Red’s love. His only chance against Keethro was with treachery, and that was not like to impress anyone.
“Well, it is a good story, no doubt. But I think I will stick with my original plan.”
“It is no good story! It is the crap my father tells me when I complain how no girl will come near me due to the smell. I will be no tanner once I am out of my father’s house, I can tell you that. It is a cruel thing to put your family through.”
Titon could not disagree. But every clan needed a tanner, and Arron would no doubt be the one they looked to when the time came, as he had no brothers.
“When I decipher this riddle of courtship, I will share with you all its secrets. It will not matter who your father is or what he does. You will get whichever girl you choose, so long as i
t is not Red, of course.”
Titon took in his surroundings. This would be the last time he would lay eyes on the dark plateaus of the western coast or the sea full of ice. Unable to inhale deeply to enjoy the scent, Titon brushed some of the sea salt that had crystallized on his brow to his palm, dabbed a bit with the tip of his tongue, and determined he preferred the taste to that of the salt traded near his home. Perhaps I could rig some device that would allow me to farm this salt straight from the air. Salt was cheap, he knew, but some may pay a premium for this taste of the sea.
“Rika,” said Arron.
“Rika?” Titon had to pause for a moment to remember what their topic had been. “That girl with the bird’s nest for hair?”
Arron scowled. “The girl with the beautiful bright-red curls of hair, you mean.”
“Yes, I meant no insult.” Titon did not wish to anger his newfound friend. “A bird’s nest is no bad thing. Every bird needs a home.”
Arron’s scowl grew, making him look mad enough to strike Titon.
“What I meant to say is—”
“Yes, it is a fecking mess, that head-o-hair.” Arron interrupted with a chuckle. “And I’ll have a mind to tell her to brush the damn thing from time to time, once I have some say in the matter.”
Titon laughed in earnest, something he realized had been rare on this trip. “She is the leatherworker’s daughter, is she not?”
“Aye, we do a lot of trade with them so I see her often. I tell you, she may not have the finest locks, but what she lacks there she more than makes up for in other areas. The Mountain be thanked. And you of all people could not fault me for liking a red-haired girl, no? Even if Red’s is hardly so still, she was when you first became enamored, if I have heard you right.”
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 23