by S. A. Hunter
“What—?” Thera flashed Ambrauld an angry look. If the mage strikes Mulberry I will deal him back double the blow. Ignoring the Cythian’s grip, Thera snapped her attention back to the Besteri. Mulberry, to Thera’s surprise, was standing perfectly still as Willestar placed his hands on her. His long, pale fingers smoothed down over her neck and withers. Thera was incredulous until she saw the mare’s eyes roll toward the mage, her skin flinching under his touch.
He forces her! He forces her to stand for him against her will.
“Do not!” Thera swallowed against the repugnance she felt. Swinging around to Ambrauld, she lowered her voice in an attempt to disguise her shaking anger. Honored guest in my father’s house.
“My Lord Ambrauld, she does not like it.”
Ambrauld looked down at her with a gentle smile. “My dear Lady, surely you can see the benefit in a fractious young beast being so easily controlled with no harm done to it or its handlers?”
“Do not. I beg you,” repeated Thera. “I do not wish to break her spirit so.”
“You are a sensitive.” Ambrauld patted the arm he had taken again in a familial grip during Thera’s distraction. “Sensitivity is woman’s special gift. You do not displease me.
“Willestar,” Ambrauld flicked his eyes away from the mare.
“Yes, of course, my Lord. I would not wish to distress the Lady ArNarone.” Willestar’s voice was deep and smooth, rich as port wine. His hand lingered a last moment, caressingly, on the mare’s flank. Then, staring at Thera, the mage traced a sign in the air and Mulberry reared, shook her head and sidled to the back of her stall. The Besteri folded his pale hands back into his sleeves and turned to Lord Ambrauld with a pleased smile. “She is beautiful, and she has excellent spirit.”
Chapter Forty-One
Ambrauld poured wine into his goblet “You frightened her, Willestar,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the mage. He strolled to the window, inhaling the fresh breeze that stirred the shadows within the chamber. “This is a wild, yet beautiful place,” the Cythian mused.
“It is damp,” muttered Willestar, “and the forest oppresses me.”
Ambrauld turned his pale eyes on the mage.
Willestar shrugged and continued, “Frightened her?” He cast an amused look at the Cythian Heir. “I think not. Disturbed her, yes. That.” Willestar rested his chin on his hand, his finger moved across his lips as he gazed at the fire. The light sharply defined the planes and shadows of his face. “She has talent, that one. My kind of talent.”
Ambrauld snorted, surprised. “A woman’s magic. So? What harm in that?”
Willestar said nothing as he regarded the younger man a long moment. He lowered his eyes and stared meditatively into the wine cup held in his hand. “You are much taken with this maiden.”
Ambrauld savored the sweet wine in his mouth as stared out toward the sea. “Yes. I cannot stop thinking of her. She is like this place—her beautiful eyes that are the color of the forest, the freshness of her skin and the amber fire in her dark hair.” He drank again, “How sweetly she blushed when I kissed her hand.” Ambrauld grunted a laugh. “A noblewoman who grooms her own horse.” He shook his head, “It is appalling that ArNarone allows her to run so wild.” He turned the goblet in his hand, his thumb tracing the carved pattern. “Did you hear her laugh? A lovely laugh, like sparkling water. When you were not upsetting her that is.” Ambrauld slid a glance at the Besteri who continued to stare at the fire, a small cynical smile on his lips. Ambrauld again looked out the window, absently watching the reconstruction activity at the West Harbor. The Memteths’ attacks had greatly damaged Allenholme’s wharf area. Teams of heavy horse rumbled past, dragging fresh-cut timbers down the winding hill to the harbor.
“Cythia has not fully appreciated the resources of this northern duchy,” Ambrauld mused—fine timber, skilled wood crafters. The fighting men are superbly trained. This young northern heiress would bring great wealth to Cythia. Such riches. Ambrauld smiled.
“And her figure,” he continued aloud to Willestar, “is goddess-like. I never guessed a gently reared maiden could inflame me so. What sons we would make, and how joyously!” He turned his head and looked at Willestar under his brows, “Not like Ethelwidde, poor soul.” The wine goblet swung in a sloppy toast to his deceased wife.
Willestar pursed his lips. One brow lifted. “She was—frail.”
“Oh, indeed, gods rest her. Her bloodlines were impeccable, and her face plain as a tinker’s damn. She was always afraid of me— though, god’s witness, I tried to be gentle with her.” Ambrauld shrugged, and rose to fill his cup again. “But this one …”
Willestar declined with a languid gesture as Ambrauld waggled the decanter. The Cythian shrugged and splashed more into his cup.
“…she would not be running to hide amongst her women every night.”
Willestar leaned forward to lift the poker and prod the fire. “The ArNarone Heiress has quite the opposite temperament indeed, my Lord. She will require very different handling.”
Ambrauld’s smile flashed like white heat in the deepening dusk.
The Besteri carefully controlled his distaste. The lusting dolt has no idea beyond the girl’s beauty. Calming his flash of irritation, he again focused his attention on the fire. He drew a deep breath, holding it long before releasing it. As he meditated on the young Lord’s desire, he was only marginally aware of the arrival of a manservant and Ambrauld’s good-humored preparations to dress for his requested meeting with Duke ArNarone.
Ambrauld has a rival. I have seen how the Ttamarini Heir watches us. Willestar shifted again. Danger. Strong forces are working here, but to effect what destiny I cannot yet determine, except they do not lie with Cythian interests.
The ArNarone heiress is, indeed, all the things Ambrauld rhapsodized about. A beautiful girl—soon to be a beautiful and formidable woman. Willestar’s lips twitched into a smile. When Ambrauld weds and beds the girl I must quickly take a hand with her, or she could very well manage to harness the Cythian Heir to her chariot.
No. That would never do. She surprised me with her ability to resist my gentle probe of her talents. Yes, surprises and intrigues me. She must be controlled, but skillfully.
As with the girl’s own concern for her horse, Willestar found he did not particularly wish to have to break her spirit.
A child from her will strengthen the dilute bloodlines of the noble Cythian house. The King of Bole has no issue—he has blood ties to ArNarone, as well, it is said, as a great fondness for that stalwart line. However, Cythia is next only to Bole itself in wealth and power. Yes. A male child it must be, born with the girl’s gifts and raised under my tutelage. They will have a future King, shaped to Besteri design.
Willestar stroked his upper lip with one finger as he mused on. Duke Perrod of Cythia had been appalled at his sickly daughter-in-law presenting him with a deformed grandson.
Poor Ethelwidde, indeed. Willestar had reassured Duke Perrod that neither mother nor child was thriving after the difficult birth, but the Duke had not wished it left to chance.
Fortunately, Ambrauld had not asked to see his “stillborn” son. He had publicly, dutifully mourned the child and poor, plain Ethelwidde, who had never looked better than when she was a corpse.
* * * *
“I wonder if we should put all your hair up, Lady?” Egrit pondered aloud as she rubbed cailia-scented balm into her palms and massaged it into Thera’s hair. She peered around into Thera’s face, “The noble guest from Cythia is so handsome. He looks and speaks so fair. I cannot believe he is one of the wicked courtiers that Healing Mistress told us of.”
“Hmm? The Cythian? He is handsome enough. But I find I do not like Cythian ways,” Thera said. It is a good thing Mulberry was unharmed. Thera had stayed to soothe the mare, who, blessings be, recovered quickly enou
gh from the Besteri’s handling.
Egrit held thick swatches of Thera’s hair between her fingers and wove them neatly together at the crown of her head. “Of course the Ttamarini Heir is more striking, but,” Egrit shivered, “I cannot be comfortable around him. He is like a wolf, I think, fierce and solitary. His eyes look as if they see the very shadows of your soul. I would be afraid if he so much as spoke to me. But he did not. There.” One hand firmly holding the hair in place, Egrit sorted through Thera’s jewelry box with the other.
He is not solitary. He waits for his mate, Thera thought with a small frisson of excitement. She tilted her head, smiling in the mirror at Egrit. “You make me look beautiful, Egrit. I am in danger of becoming as vain as a Cythian bolari dancer.”
Indeed, thought Thera, wondering at herself, today I feel glorious and invincible.
‘I wish, she sent to the Elanraigh, I knew if you are responsible for this feeling, or if it comes from somewhere in me?” The Elanraigh hummed along her nerves—there was a decided air of satisfaction in the Elanraigh’s mood.
A young maidservant entered Thera’s chamber to light the oil lamps. Russet highlights flared to life in the dark mass of Thera’s hair. “The red must be from your father’s side, Lady,” said Egrit. “Ah, this is the one for tonight.” Egrit choose a topaz and gold clasp to fasten the twists of Thera’s hair. She brushed energetically at the rest until it flowed down her back.
Thera stepped into the moss-green gown and savored the silky slipping of the fine clothes up her body. She watched in the mirror while Egrit fastened the back. Amber beads gleamed at the gown’s neck, cascading over shoulders and bodice. The gown clung to breast and hip in undulating shadows of deeper green. Amber, sewn a hand-span deep at the hem, made a pleasing sound when she walked.
“Lady,” Egrit’s eyes shone, “always I knew you were lovely—never more so than now.”
“Egrit,” Thera clasped the maid’s hands. “I thank you for your words, because tonight,” a smile tipped the corners of her mouth, “tonight he is here for me and I will make him mine.”
“Which one, Lady?” asked Egrit with a dimpled smile of her own.
“Which? Oh, tch.” Thera mock-frowned over her shoulder.
Egrit was still smiling as she answered a tap on the chamber door. Swordswoman Enid, on guard duty outside Thera’s chamber, announced a messenger from Duke Leon. Thera glanced up and nodded. Enid swung the door wider and an unfamiliar youth in recruit’s colors entered. Glancing sideways at Enid as he passed, the young man’s gaze arrested on the ugly scar that marred Enid’s forehead and scalp. He reddened as Enid flatly returned his stare.
“A soldier’s scars are common enough these days, I would’ve thought, recruit?” she drawled.
The recruit sweated in the heat of his chagrin as he turned to salute Thera. “L-Lady Thera. Recruit Sword Eagin at your ser-service. Lady, your father wishes to see you privately in his conference room. I am to escort you there.”
* * * *
A frown fled Duke Leon’s brow as he lifted his gaze to her. He rose from his worktable and stood until Thera was seated across from him.
“You look lovely, my own.” He shook his head. “Am I soon to be left in the dust of memories of my little girl heeling a fat pony to a jog in the exercise yard?”
Thera laughed, but examined her father with the gift. “His words and manner are light, but he is heavily troubled.”
Leon sat, leaning back in the high-backed chair. His head tipped down and chin on chest, he stared rather bleakly at a closely written scroll. His thick fingers drummed the tabletop.
Thera clasped her hands in her lap. She eyed her father anxiously. It was unusual for her to be called to this room—as a child only after the worst misdemeanors. Her father’s old wolfhound rose heavily to his feet and swayed over to her. She fondled his head then pushed the grey muzzle aside. “No, you old ruffian, I am dressed for the hall.”
Her father roused and snapped his fingers, calling the old hound to him. As the wolfhound settled at his feet with a heavy sigh, Leon directed a keen and focused look at Thera.
“Thera,” Leon flicked a finger against the scroll. “I have here a formal request for your hand in marriage.”
Chamakin! Could it be? Mother said before I left for Elankeep that he had already asked and father had told him he must wait. Thera felt a heat rising under her skin and excitement tingled along her nerves. Her father’s fair brow rose as he scrutinized her. The corners of his mouth drew down.
“This does not seem to have come entirely as a surprise then?” Leon’s tone was heavy and Thera felt a squeeze of apprehension. A frown rumpled his brow as he toyed with the scroll, then shoving papers, scrolls, and maps aside, he rested his arms on the desktop. Thera abided in deepest anxiety while her father, cracking his knuckles, remained in thought.
“Well, my dear,” he said at last, “it is a noble offer. But…,” he glanced sternly at her, “you are very young yet and so I told him.”
Thera found herself clenching her hands together painfully. She deliberately relaxed her fingers, spreading them against the softness of cloth that draped her thighs.
“Father…”
Leon lifted his hand. “Well. The young noble is as full of ardor and promises to cherish you as any father could wish to hear. Indeed, my dear, I am only too aware of all that recommends this union.” Leon’s mouth drew down even further, “He seems a man enough—cocksure and arrogant for one so untried,” Leon muttered. He observed Thera’s puzzled frown, “but—but he is yet a young man. He will grow into the wisdom he needs. I am aware that a house of such wealth and status as Duke Perrod’s could choose a bride from any Duchy. To be sure, my dear,” her father’s lip curled slightly, “he touched on that most delicately. But—but I had hoped—Thera, what is it?”
“Perrod! You mean it is Lord Ambrauld of whom you speak?” Thera reared to her feet.
“Why, yes. Who did you—ah!” Leon too, levered from his chair. He paced a few steps and then spun on his heel, his expression bright. “Hah!” He strode toward Thera, taking her hands in his. “Then you are not taken with Perrod’s Heir?”
“No, father! No. I had thought you were speaking of —” Thera flushed and she bit her lip.
Leon gazed down at her a moment, then backed, pulling her with him, to sit hip-slung on his worktable. His mouth quirked in a small smile as he looked at her. “I see. My dear, let me tell you that over these past months I have come to have a great regard for our Ttamarini allies. In truth, Teckcharin is a man I could proudly call brother—and the son is very like his father.”
Thera felt she must be shining with joy. “Then you do not hold with great-grandfather’s feelings?”
“What is this?” Leon’s brow rumpled.
“Duke Leif ArNarone and the others refused to condone a marriage between Ttamarini and Allenholme—in Lady Dysanna’s time,” Thera reminded her father.
“Elanraigh bless you, lass—that old tale. Why would you think so? I have ever judged a man as I find him.”
“Will this cause trouble for us with Cythia?” Thera asked.
Leon smiled even more broadly. “Well, I will send the young Cythian away, as soon as may be, right smarting from his thwarted love. Though I must credit him with good taste in his first choice, he strikes me as a young man who will soon be smitten again, come along another beauty of noble house. My own,” Leon fingered one of Thera’s curls, “I was troubled, feeling he was not worthy of you. We can well endure Cythia’s pique—we have Ttamarini allies by our side and I will make sure to have the favor of the King.” Leon slung his arm around Thera and walked her toward the map on the wall. He sighed. “It will be necessary to travel to court to formally present our new alliance and receive the King’s sanction of it. Tch. It is a tedious journey, and I am ever loath to leave
Allenholme. However, the King must know the northern part of his kingdom to be at peace and strongly held.” Leon hugged her shoulders, “If he is the man I remember, the King will see reason, and be as satisfied with the Allenholme and Ttamarini alliance—and your betrothal, as are we.”
“Father!” Thera hugged Leon tightly, then leaned back to look at him, “but I have not seen Chamakin since I’ve returned. What if he does not feel the same about me?”
“Hah!” laughed Leon. “His father and I have long noted his increasing edginess, his lean and hungry wolfishness. These days he chooses to ride alone—fast and hard— over widow-maker trails.
“I was just the same way, you know, when I first saw and loved your mother. Old Lord Chadwyn denied my courtship of your mother until my anointing by the King as Heir to Allenholme. This ceremony, as you know, does not happen until your nineteenth year. Young Chamakin is just the same as I was that year.” Leon threw back his head in another laugh and hugged her against his side.
“My recruits dread arms drill these days, so fiercely does your Chamakin glare and bash at them in the practice yard. Hah! Just so did my Heart’s Own bear many more bruises than usual from the ferocity of our arms practice during those months I was held off from your mother. Oh yes, he loves you, my dear.”
Thera felt the welling of joyful tears. She swiped at her eyes with her fingertips. “He is a wonderful warrior, is he not, father? So brave in the battles with the Memteth, yet the Maiya’s teachings have made him both thoughtful and wise beyond his years.”
“Aye. Aye, lass, he is a good man. You never knew I extracted a promise from him, before you left for Elankeep, that he would not approach you until he had my consent for you to be courted. I told him you were too young, and so you are, but the Cythian’s interest has now forced my hand.