by Jill Myles
“Very well.” Idalla nodded. “I will send word to the vizier about your family. He will handle the matter.” She touched Seri’s shoulder. “The prince did send a message for you. The queen and his sister have arrived and wish very much to meet you.”
The queen had arrived? That was rather unexpected . . . and unpleasant. She had no idea what she’d say to the woman. Greetings, queen. I was forced to marry your son and even though I tried to kill him, we cannot seem to stop sleeping together. Seri’s frown grew deeper and she paused in the long stone hallway. “Did you say he has a sister?”
Idalla flushed and looked uncomfortable. “He does, my lady. At least, he claims her as a sister.”
“But I thought . . . Graeme said . . . ?”
The maidservant colored a little and leaned in to whisper, “She is not of the Blood, my lady, if you understand me.”
It took Seri a moment, but her eyes widened in realization. “Oh. You mean the queen . . .”
Idalla nodded. “Took a lover, my lady. The king has shunned her ever since. He did not care that she took a lover, except that she gave him a daughter. It is a mortal insult to his line.” She gave Seri a knowing look. “You do know the queen is not his real mother, either?”
“She’s not?” By the four gods, Athonite politics were more knotted than Josdi’s pillows.
“No, of course not. Prince Graeme is much older than the queen. She is his stepmother, his father’s eighth bride.”
Eight brides. My goodness. “Where are they?”
“In the parlor with the other ladies, my lady.”
Seri flinched at that. If they were with the other ladies, then that meant Lady Mila and Lady Aynee—both of whom she had been scrupulously avoiding—were with them as well. “Isn’t there some other . . . activity I could do?” Seri asked.
Idalla chuckled. “I am afraid not. And I daresay the queen will not approve of your attire.”
Seri smoothed down her new clothing. It was a feminine version of Graeme’s clothing: a tunic with flowing pants tucked into boots, and a decorative belt at her waist. “If it’s entirely unavoidable, let us go and meet them, then,” Seri said with a sigh.
The parlor was a large, airy room on the far side of the castle. The sound of Lady Mila’s trilling laughter touched Seri’s ears before she entered the room, and her insides clenched with nervousness.
As if sensing her unease, Idalla hesitated by the door. “My lady?” A quiet question.
But Seri straightened her shoulders and thrust her head back. “I’m fine,” she assured the maid with a quick smile. “Thank you.”
Idalla opened the door for her mistress.
Silence fell in the chamber at Seri’s arrival. The room was sparsely decorated save for the embroidery stands clustered together. Seated in front of each one was an Athonite lady in a high-necked, tight-fitting gown with full skirts. The women looked at her warily, unmoving. She only recognized a few faces. Lady Jinda sat proudly on one stool. Lady Penella huddled beside her mother. The coolly beautiful Lady Aynee was seated next to Lady Mila, who looked as if she’d eaten a mouthful of dung. The tension in the room was palpable, angry.
Only Lady Aynee’s expression was polite as she stood, before dropping into a deep curtsy at the sight of Seri. “My lady.”
As if remembering their manners, the women in the room scrambled to their feet and did the same. Lady Mila was the last to bow, a smug, mocking look on her face.
One figure alone did not stand, a woman seated at the front, clasping an embroidery hoop. She had a thick braid of hair that was more silver than black, and a bitter twist to her mouth, age showing in the lines of her skin. She wore a high collar that bloomed out under her chin and a heavy, thick necklace of red jewels.
It had to be the queen.
Of Graeme’s sister, there was no sign.
The queen examined Seri’s clothing distastefully and then wrinkled her nose. “You do not bow to me?”
Tension boiled through the room. The women remained in place, heads bent, but Seri detected a hint of a smile on Lady Mila’s face.
Seri swept past the kneeling women and across the room as if nothing was amiss and took the empty seat next to the queen. She grasped the armrests and she forced herself to respond coolly. “I am Vidari, madam. As you know, we bow to no one.”
Anger darkened the woman’s lined face, and her mouth pursed. “My stepson has surely been cursed by the Goddess to have her choose you over all the women of the court.”
“On that, madam, we can certainly agree.”
Lady Jinda coughed uncomfortably and then Lady Aynee rose, retaking her seat. The rest of the women followed suit, trickling back to their chairs and picking up their embroidery. The queen still radiated hostility, glaring at Seri, who had no choice but to stare serenely outward as if this were not one of the most uncomfortable things she had ever experienced.
A servant dropped to her knee before Seri’s stiff figure. “May I fetch you embroidery, my lady?”
Seri gave the girl a faint smile. “I do not embroider, but thank you.”
“Perhaps you would like to read some poetry, then?” Lady Mila’s innocent voice rang through the silent room.
Seri’s smile became forced. “I do not read.”
“Play an instrument, perhaps? Or sing? We would not wish to bore you.” Mila’s tone was coy.
“None of those things.”
A whisper went about the room then, and out of the corner of her eye, Seri saw several women bend their heads together, talking quietly.
Next to her, the queen spoke. “What is it that your barbarian culture does if they do not teach their women the finer aspects of civility? How do they expect you to find a husband?”
Were their lives so pitiful and small? Anger surged inside Seri that her worth would be determined by something so stupid as whether or not she could sing. “I am afraid that the Vidari are more concerned with trying to eat than reciting poetry. When you are forced to slave in your fields all day to serve a cruel conqueror, you find that feeding your family takes up a great deal of your time.”
Silence fell again.
Lady Mila smoothed her skirts, embroidery forgotten in her lap. “My queen,” she said, her voice sweeter than Seri had ever heard it. “Where is the lovely Lady Melene?”
“In the stables, no doubt, playing with the animals,” the queen said. “The girl is a fool and insists on acting a child when she should be in here, conversing with adults.”
“I see,” said Lady Mila, in a tone that indicated that she did not see at all.
If Lady Melene had managed to avoid these horrid women, then she was a great deal more clever than Seri herself. Grasping at that small bit of information, she stood. “Graeme has asked me to meet his sister,” Seri said. “I think I shall go find her. Please excuse me.”
With that, she swept through the quiet room and exited out the parlor door.
The moment the doors were shut behind her, Seri leaned against the wall, panting, trying to catch her breath and calm herself. Her pulse was racing as if she had fought a fierce battle. They were only ladies with fine dresses and needlework, but she had not backed down to them.
She was Vidari and she was Princesse. And she would not let anyone condescend to her—not even the queen herself.
It was rare to be unaccompanied through Vidara Castle, and Seri was in no rush to have someone attached to her footsteps again. But the queen had said that Melene was in the stables, and while Seri had committed the mazelike hallways of the castle to memory, she had no idea how to get out of the keep to the stables. As she rounded the corner leading away from the parlor, she saw a young-looking guard with sandy hair on his way to the kitchens.
“Pardon me,” she called, racing forward and touching his shoulder.
The man turned around and his hazel eyes widened. He bowed
deeply. “Princesse.”
“There’s no need for that,” Seri said with a wave of her wrist. “But I do need your help.”
“How may I be of service?” he asked, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I am hoping you can show me where the stables are. I am told Lady Melene may be there.”
He nodded. “It would be my honor.”
“Thank you,” Seri said, following him down a corridor she’d never taken before. “What is your name?”
“Kell, my lady.” He glanced sidelong at her, then waited a moment before saying in a low voice, “I like your tunic.”
Seri grinned at him. “Not everyone agrees with you. I fear the queen was quite scandalized.”
Kell laughed. “Perhaps, but the woman I am seeing is Vidari. She is headstrong, like you.” His face turned serious as he led her outside the stone walls. “I admire what you are trying to do. Would that we could all live in peace.”
“Would that all Athonites were as open-minded as you,” Seri said. They fell into silence as they stepped into the outer courtyard, which teemed with life. Servants and soldiers rushed about in the darkness, and lantern light filled the night air. The wind rushed hard and fast, cutting through the filmy fabric of her tunic, and she rubbed her arms as Kell led her toward the stables, a massive building that smelled like hay and manure. The pungent combination reminded her of home, and of Rilen, and her throat tightened.
“Unless I miss my guess, Princesse, Lady Melene is in the back stall with a cat that gave birth a few days ago.”
Seri smiled at Kell and thanked him for showing her the way. “Please,” she said, “call me Seri.”
He touched his forehead in respect. “I’ll wait outside in case you need an escort back.”
“Very well,” she agreed, and picked her way through the stables.
Seri had expected Melene to be aloof and arrogant, an ice-cold courtier like Lady Mila or her mother. The woman she found in the horse stall cradling a tiny kitten to her breast, thick leather workman’s boots beneath her dress, was none of those things.
Melene was beautiful. Her hair was long and black, her eyes a dark blue. She had an aquiline nose, and full lips that broke into a smile as Seri approached.
“You’re here!” Melene gently put the kitten down next to the mother cat and got to her feet, brushing her dirty hands on the pale pink skirts of her gown, leaving smears on the fabric. Melene smiled and extended her hands to Seri. “I’ve been so excited to meet my brother’s bride.”
Surprised at the warm response, Seri took the woman’s proffered hands and grinned back. “How did you know who I was?”
Melene smiled, revealing a dimple in her cheek. “I am told there are not many Vidari wandering through the castle dressed in men’s clothing.”
“There are not any Vidari in the castle at all,” Seri corrected, pulling away from Melene. “The only one I have seen has been strung up at the gates.” Bitterness crept in her voice.
Melene inhaled sharply. “Oh.” She cocked her head and studied Seri for a long moment, as if unsure of what to make of her. “You’ve married my brother but you’re not in love with him, are you?”
Seri laughed at that and shook her head, rueful. “I cannot love the man that oppresses my people. We can barely speak to each other in a civil fashion.” Though bedding together was another matter entirely.
“How very curious.” The Athonite woman didn’t seem taken aback by Seri’s words, merely confused. “And it is the king that oppresses your people, not Graeme.”
“Graeme is here, not the king,” Seri insisted stubbornly.
Melene shrugged. “It can take time to flout a king’s decree.”
Seri eyed the woman skeptically but did not refute her.
“For some reason, I had always thought Graeme would marry a lady of the court. I figured if he married you, he must love you,” Melene said.
“The Betrothal took that option away from either of us, I’m afraid.”
“Just so,” Melene agreed. “The Goddess gets what she wants. But I’ve never known my brother to be forced into anything he did not want.”
“There is a first time for everything,” Seri countered lightly and glanced at the kittens. “Am I interrupting?”
A bright grin flashed across Melene’s face again. “The kittens were born a sevenday ago,” Melene said with excitement, kneeling back in the straw again, heedless of her gown. “Their eyes aren’t open yet, but the stable boys promised to keep one for me if we are still here at that time.”
Seri sank into the straw next to Graeme’s sister and allowed Melene to pass her a kitten. It was soft, so tiny that she could scarcely believe the frailty of it. She cradled it against her breast. “I was surprised to find you out here,” Seri admitted. “I thought you would be in the parlor with the rest of the women of the court.”
Melene scratched the tiny head of the kitten with short, bitten fingernails. “No, I’m afraid the court ladies don’t like me much.” She smiled faintly. “They cannot forget the circumstances of my birth.”
A surge of warmth shot through Seri, and she laughed for what felt like the first time in ages. “Then it seems we are of a similar situation, you and I.”
“Sisters in more ways than one,” Melene agreed. She hesitated before adding, “You should give Graeme a chance, Seri. I know my brother, and he’s a good man. He’s not like Velair or the king.”
“Are they so different?”
Melene’s mouth flattened. “If Velair had found these kittens, well . . . let’s just be happy he didn’t.”
Seri’s eyes widened with horror. “I’ve heard rumors about him and the king,” she said, recalling what Idalla had told her. They were hard, warmongering.
“Graeme is not like them,” Melene said softly. “Trust in that. If he’s hard about something, it’s because he has not seen the truth of it for himself. He must always think things through before acting. Give him time.”
Seri thought of Graeme. His gentle hands tugging at her hips on their wedding night. His solicitousness to her in front of the court, despite the fact that the rest of them eyed her as they would a mongrel dog. His silence when she stabbed him last night. Perhaps Melene knew her brother, but Seri didn’t want to give it time. She wanted to live her own life, on her own terms.
“I hope we shall get to know each other more in the coming days,” Melene continued, setting down one kitten and picking up another.
“As do I,” Seri said, and she meant it.
“Do you ride? I should teach you. We can ride about the countryside and share secrets about my brother.” Melene grinned.
“I should like that very much,” Seri said.
“I thought you might.” Melene giggled. Her fingers cradled the kitten and she pulled it in for a kiss. “Graeme is difficult to get to know, but he is a love once you do.”
Seri sat back on her heels. She liked Melene, but on that, they would have to disagree.
Things in the Vidara lands were tense indeed. Even though it had only been days since Graeme’s wedding to Seri, news had traveled far and wide of the Athonite prince’s marriage to the Vidari farm girl. And it seemed that no one was happy about it.
Instead of a peaceful visit to check the nearby granaries, Prince Graeme had met a mob with pitchforks and torches. They’d been waiting for him despite the late evening hour, and at the sight of Graeme with his troops, they pushed forward, yelling. “Monster,” they’d called him. “Usurping monster.” All because he’d married a Vidari girl?
Graeme had tried to calm the rioters, but they wouldn’t listen to reason. One had even thrown a rock at him, scratching Graeme’s cheek. At the end, he and his men had finally just turned around, unequipped to take on the crowds themselves.
Now, he rode back to Vidara Castle, his mood foul. The fight had b
een pointless. Had they thought he’d come to take the grain stored there instead of merely assessing it? He wasn’t like his father. He had no intention of grinding the opposing parties under his thumb. Let the Vidari work their land and pay their taxes like any other citizen. But he knew that would never satisfy them. They wanted the Athonites gone.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
He passed his reins to one of the men at the stable, grimacing at the lightening sky. Almost dawn. He had to return to the safety of the castle, and soon.
“My prince?” the man stammered. “Your face?”
He touched his cheek and found it sticky with dried blood. “Do you have a cloth?”
The stable master passed him a wet rag that smelled of horses, and Graeme scrubbed at his skin. “Better?” he asked once he’d given the rag back.
The man nodded, then bowed to Graeme as the prince exited.
Still in a foul mood, Graeme headed for his study. He needed some time alone to set his head straight. Once in his study, he lit the candles, sat down at his desk, and rubbed his forehead.
“Your grace?” Jardish knocked at the study door even as he entered.
Weary, Graeme sighed. “What is it now?”
The vizier’s wrinkled face was drawn into a heavy frown. “Your grace, there are a handful of Vidari at the castle gates. I’ve had the troops send them away twice but they keep returning. They are demanding to talk to you.”
“Are they, now.” Maybe talking to them would bring him some insight on his prickly bride and the angry people who just mobbed him. “Bring them in, then.”
Jardish’s eyes went wide. “You cannot be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. Why else would you bring the matter to me?”
Jardish cleared his throat. “So you could give the order to have them hung.”
“Hung? For wanting to talk?” He barked a laugh. No wonder Seri thought the Athonites were heartless beasts. “Just bring them in. Escorted.” He remembered his bride’s knife. If she had a weapon, there would be more.
The vizier looked unhappy but bowed. “As you wish.”