Sergevni hated when his father called him by that name. It was the affectionate name his mother called him; in his father’s mouth, it was mocking and condescending. He forced a smile.
“Yes, thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, my boy, be sure to remember the beautiful bride I found you. I could have promised you to the monster-princess of Erkatha, or to a rich duchess with a horse’s teeth. But I gave you Owayn’s precious jewel of a daughter.”
The smile on Sergevni’s lips trembled as he fought to keep it fixed there.
“Now, Sergevni, enough time has been wasted. We will introduce her to the court tomorrow — a ball in her honour. In the next fortnight, you two shall wed. What think you?”
What need had Sergevni for thinking when he was his father’s to command at will? No master ever asked its puppet for its thoughts. Sergevni bowed his head.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The emperor grew silent for a moment, pinning Sergevni with a searching stare. His eyes were as black as the wings of a beetle, beady and oily. Sergevni avoided his gaze when he could, but he did not flinch this time, letting his father look his fill.
“You are ever so obedient,” the emperor said with a slight smirk. “A worrying quality in a future emperor.”
“But a pleasing quality in a son,” Sergevni said. “What good is a son with thoughts and plans of his own, father, when yours matter more?”
He had not intended to respond to his father’s goading, and he regretted it immediately. A satisfied smile distorted his father’s features and his eyes glistened with a perverse triumph.
“Ah, yes, there is the resentment I expected,” he sighed. “Well, go along, Senya. Get some rest and prepare yourself. I expect you to be the image of princely perfection tomorrow evening. All of Karscha comes to see you and your bride.”
Sergevni nodded curtly, not bothering to make a reply. Turning on his heels, he strode out of the room and towards his own quarters.
Over the years, he had deprived his room of its decorations. Now the blue walls were mostly bare, the vases and statues moved to other rooms in the palace. His bedchamber was uncluttered, chilly and almost empty but for wardrobes and his bed, from which the satin cushions and brocade eiderdowns had been long removed.
Preparing himself for his return to court was a matter of stripping to his trousers and boots, flinging open the doors to his small, private courtyard and stepping out into the wintry air. His flesh puckered in protest against the cold, but it was part of his ritual. A rack of wooden weapons stood at the edge of the courtyard: training weapons, heavier than real swords, designed to try one’s strength. Sergevni picked from it the heaviest sword.
Gripping the handle with both hands, Sergevni began to dance out the steps of the drills he knew so well. These were the drills he had learned as a youth, the drills he had since taught to countless garrisons. Steps, faints, parries, lunges and pivots, all blending into one another like a dance.
Soon, Sergevni’s blood was drumming through his veins, his sweat turning to steam in the frigid air. His mind was empty, unshackled by thoughts and worries, letting his body execute each well-learned movement without interference.
Night had fallen by the time he finished. The sky darkened to pitch, the azure expanse naked but for the stars. Sergevni sent for a small supper and ate on his own by the fire. A bath had already been drawn for him and he was thankful for the ability to wash and rest his sore muscles in the boiling water. He went to bed early as was his habit and lay awake, frowning into the darkness.
On the morrow, he would send for news of his garrison. They were travelling less lightly than he and Adrienna had; it was unlikely they had returned yet. He would arrange for scouts to go out in search of them. Then he would organise an inspection of the armies. He had been away for a while. Once done, he would have no choice but to face the inevitable and attend the ball with his betrothed.
He wondered what she was doing. She had probably been whisked away to some flamboyant apartment in the pavilion and taken under the wing of countless ladies-in-waiting and servants. They had probably rubbed her with perfumes and covered every part of her skin with silk and jewels. She was the newest curiosity, and all would want a piece of her.
Better for her to get used to it. At the ball, she would become like the last scrap of meat in a cage full of tundra wolves. She would be ogled and prodded and passed around. Amongst his father’s court, she would be out of the reach of Sergevni’s protection.
Sergevni felt a weight settle upon him. He wanted to protect her. He had not realised it until this very moment, but the prospect of being unable to safeguard her angered him. There was something about her that demanded to be kept safe, to be kept unbroken. A recklessness, a feral intemperance that he admired and longed to preserve.
Understanding dawned upon Sergevni. Adrienna fascinated him because he hated court — and she was utterly unlike any courtier he knew.
Only this could explain his peculiar fascination with the Veritian princess. There was no other reason. She was beautiful, but so were many of the ladies of the court. Her body was exquisite, but Sergevni had known exquisite women before. And her eyes were blue and daring in a way that made his blood boil… but that must be merely anger, nothing more.
He fell asleep in the midst of his confused thoughts, and strange dreams of satin flesh tormented him.
In the morning he awoke feeling well-rested, but a heaviness had settled upon his mind. He practised his drills, bathed and dressed mindlessly, and set about his errands. He sent for news of his garrison, organised marches and inspections, consulted with his generals, and listened to their reports. The day passed in a blur, and soon his father’s three simpering valets came to find him where he sat reading missives in his study.
“His Imperial Majesty bids you prepare for the ball, Your Imperial Highness.”
“His Imperial Majesty bids you wear the fine garments he has sent to your rooms.”
“His Imperial Majesty wishes you to be ready to meet your bride, for he desires you to escort her into the ball.”
“Very well,” snapped Sergevni.
He obeyed and returned to his chambers to find garments of decadent red velvet embroidered with gold awaiting him. A gaggle of pages had been sent along with it to see to him, as though his father thought Sergevni incapable of making himself appear presentable.
They scrubbed and cleaned him, engulfed him in clouds of perfume. They shaved his face clean of any stray hair, combed the golden curls of his head until it shone like spun gold. Each layer of clothing was carefully placed upon him and laced. Sergevni endured it all; the ritual humiliation was key to his father’s enjoyment of the evening.
When a small page tried to set a brush of pink dust to his cheekbones to lend him the artificial flush that was so fashionable in court, Sergevni grabbed his arm and pulled it away firmly.
“That’s enough.”
The page winced and Sergevni released him. He strode briskly out of the room, forcing the valets waiting outside to scramble to catch up with him.
“Your Imperial Highness! Come with us, please.”
Sergevni followed them down the corridor and to the wing adjacent to his. It surprised him that his father had placed Adrienna so close. But before he could try to think of the motive behind his father’s decision, a door opened. Ladies-in-waiting in elegant dresses poured out in a flurry of giggles and murmurs. And then Adrienna appeared.
She wore a magnificent dress the colour of blood, the fabric richly embroidered with patterns of flowers in gold and blue. Her skirts flared from her narrow corset, exaggerating the slimness of her waist. Her collar was high and her sleeves were long, but rather than concealing the beauty of her limbs, the fabric encased and displayed her body in a way that was strikingly alluring.
A necklace of gold and rubies was fastened over the high collar of her dress, glimmering darkly at her throat. Her hair had been combed into glossy smo
othness, the short tresses adorned with a crown of red roses secured around a band of gold filigree.
Her face had been painted in the fashion of the Karschan court: her lips as crimson as the roses around her head, her eyes rimmed with fine black lines that made the blue of her eyes all the more vivid.
Now Sergevni saw her for what she would become: a reigning monarch of Karscha. She had the poise and grace for it. She fit her clothes as though she had lived in Karscha her entire life. Sergevni knew not what to make of it, but the beating of his heart quickened, as though he had just been running or fighting. He took a minute to steady himself before approaching his bride to offer her his arm.
She seemed neither pleased to see him nor resentful. A perfectly courteous smile shaped her crimson lips, and she took his offered arm, linking hers through it. Her touch was light and aloof. Sergevni was reminded against his will of how warm and pliant she had felt in his arms the previous night. He clenched his jaw. He must forget about that night.
Walking down the corridor with Adrienna, he could not help but admire her. Not her beauty and elegance — but her steely resolve. There was a mettle in her he had underestimated. Alone as she was in the middle of a new land, about to be introduced to a new court like a sacrifice offered to capricious gods, there was not a trace of worry or concern upon her face.
Instead, a placid smile settled over her lips, and her eyes focused ahead of her. She glided through the fluted columns and gilded arches of the palace as though she belonged amongst their ostentatious glamour. They approached the entrance to the great ballroom; still her serene smile did not falter.
Sergevni had much to learn from her; he could barely force a shadow of a smile.
“His Imperial Highness Prince Sergevni and Her Royal Highness Princess Adrienna of Veritier.”
The door opened, the trumpets sounded, and the murmur of gossiping courtiers rushed over Sergevni like a wave. As they entered the glittering ballroom, they were met with the smell of perfume and cake and wine, the cloying sweetness sickening Sergevni. All around them, courtiers in brocades and velvets and satins gathered like peacocks, ears and fingers sparkling with jewels, eyes trained hungrily upon the royal couple.
Sergevni had not spoken a word to Adrienna since they had arrived at the palace, but he leaned down, his cheek brushing against hers.
“Tread carefully,” he whispered. “Saints keep you, Adrienna.”
She glanced up at him, her clever eyes searching his quickly. Then she smiled sweetly, the exact smile she had turned upon the courtiers upon entering.
“Saints keep you instead, Your Imperial Highness. I’ve no need for them tonight.”
And then she bowed her head, the smell of roses caressing Sergevni. He opened his mouth to say something, but she had closed herself from him as surely as if she had placed a shield of steel between them. With her smile as her sword, she faced the ballroom and entered the maelstrom of courtiers.
7. Gown
The courtiers of Sevalensk were not so different from the courtiers of Hawksmoor after all. Bored, sheltered noblefolk, they were desperate for something new, something different. Adrienna knew that the novelty of her Veritian origin would only protect her for a while; a bloom that would in time wither and fade.
But she would keep that bloom sweet and fresh as long as she could. She kept herself closely withheld; she answered every question with another question. She learned names and titles. She bowed, and she deferred, and she revealed no information about her that was not already known. Her unknowableness would not only keep her safe for now — it would be crucial to her future reign.
So she drank from the goblets of wine, she danced with the counts and barons. She laughed at jests and she partook in gossip. She sat at the chess table and allowed the dukes to win, though she allowed herself to defeat their sons.
The wives of noblemen she treated with a particular sweetness and deference. She made herself respectful; she asked for their advice on dressmakers, on seamstresses and painters. The night wore on and the music played, and as she flitted from courtier to courtier, she felt the eyes that weighed upon her. The eyes of the hungry nobility, the eyes of the gossiping servants, the eyes of the old emperor who sat upon a heavy throne of engraved gold.
And she felt, most of all, the weight of Sergevni’s hawk eyes. He stood straight and solemn, conversing with a group of high-ranking officers, but his eyes followed her wherever she went. Let him watch her. If he imagined her to be helpless and vulnerable amid his court, then let him realise that he was wrong. He did not wish to be burdened by a wife — she would not burden him.
For many years Aster had kept her safe, but she was no longer at her side. Adrienna would not have her replaced. She would not fall upon the charity of Sergevni’s protection. She would keep herself safe and fall upon herself for protection. She might not know how to wield a sword and withstand pain like Aster and Sergevni — but she knew how to wield power amongst people, how to charm and disarm.
Aware of the weight of Sergevni’s attention, Adrienna moved airily through the crowd, one goblet of wine in each hand, and approached the emperor’s throne. The old man had introduced himself to her the day of her arrival, and she had formed her opinion of him instantly. Much like her father, he was a man used to command but not combat, to control but not force. He owned the greatest army in Westmere but he had probably not lifted a sword in many decades.
Signs of beauty remained upon him, distorted by age and obesity. He had once been handsome, but had fallen prey to over-indulgence. His garments and jewellery were extravagant; he cared much for the opinion of others. In short, he was much like many old noblemen: proud, past his prime, desperately holding on to past glories.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, handing him a goblet. “Will you drink with me?”
He seemed surprised that she had approached him. Perhaps he had built around himself a circle of impassable fear; she had noticed most of the courtiers did not approach his throne. She had guessed he might be lonely, but speaking to him had been a risk nonetheless.
“Why, yes, my daughter,” he said with a slow smile, taking the goblet. “I trust you are settling well in Sevalensk?”
“It is my new home, and your court has welcomed me with open arms.”
They had welcomed her with questions and probing stares. But the emperor did not require an honest answer — only an answer.
“And your betrothed? Does my son please you?”
It was a difficult question. Did Sergevni please her? He was pleasing to look at, and his body was pleasing, too. He was beautiful but remote, like a cold star; tantalisingly close yet utterly beyond her reach.
“He is the best a woman could hope for.” As she spoke, she turned, and her gaze met Sergevni’s across the room. His face was pale with immaculately controlled fury. “He is brave and kind. I hope to be a worthy wife to him.”
The emperor chuckled.
“Yes, my dear, I think you shall be.”
Adrienna turned back towards the emperor and faced him with the full force of her pleading gaze.
“I have desired to be a bride for so long, and you have gifted me such a worthy groom. My dearest wish is to be married — at your earliest convenience, of course, Your Imperial Majesty.”
The emperor smiled. This pleased him, Adrienna saw it in the sudden light in his eyes. Karscha had long desired a close alliance with Veritier. Its roads and ports would allow Karscha easier access to the south-west: to Lazulai and its spices and silks, its exotic fruits and animals, to Erkatha and its healing herbs and wine and architects, to Assaria and its perfumes and scrolls.
“Yes, you and my son will soon be wed,” the emperor was saying, cupping his goblet and nodding. “Within the next fortnight all of Karscha and Veritier will celebrate our new alliance.”
Two weeks. After two weeks, she would secure her position as the future queen of Karscha. She would wield more power than ever before. And she would use that p
ower to take back what Arkavik had stolen from her.
“I am honoured to become part of your great empire,” she said to the king, smiling radiantly. “Veritier is honoured to ally itself to the most powerful land in Westmere.”
“Let us drink to it,” said the emperor.
Adrienna drank deeply from her cup, watching the emperor over the golden rim. If she could not hope to melt Sergevni’s heart into loving her, she would seek to wield power over his father. After all, Sergevni had not chosen her — but the emperor had. An old man was easier to bend to her will than a soldier. Sergevni might be as indifferent as he wished to be, but his father would adore her.
After they had drained their cups, Adrienna excused herself and left the empty circle around the throne. She had barely rejoined the perfumed throng of courtiers when she felt a hand wrap around her arm. A firm grip, almost painful, impossible to deny.
She turned her head to see Sergevni’s pale face. Then she was being pushed through the crowd. She moved without protest, fixing the relaxed smile on her face like a mask as she passed the courtiers. Sergevni led her through the sculpted archway of a tall, narrow window, plunging them both into icy darkness.
Half-dragging her along a balcony, Sergevni pushed her into a corner away from the windows. There, a stone alcove dripping with skeletal ivy created a nest of shadows, hiding them from prying eyes. Into that shadow, Sergevni cornered Adrienna.
He was much taller than her, forcing her to point her chin up to hold his gaze. His hazel eyes seemed more gold than they ever had, and in the blue moonlight they burned. An inferno of tightly repressed emotions blazed within him. When he spoke, tremors shook his melodious voice.
“What is it you hope to achieve, Adrienna?” he asked through gritted teeth.
She saw the muscles of his jaw strain. He was angry at her for talking to his father. Why?
“I hope to honour the alliance between our countries,” she said coolly. Like the emperor, Sergevni was not seeking the truth, only an answer. “I hope to obey our fathers’ wishes and wed the great and noble prince of Karscha.”
Rubies and Roses Page 6