Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  Mother’s brows rose a fraction. “A Tuvrian?”

  Feigned surprise, of course. A blind man could see what he was from a league away. Spine as rigid as the steel on his back. Face carved out of stone, cold and unreadable. He was tall and broad-shouldered, not a wasted ounce on him, a thick mane of wheat hair wrestled back into a tidy knot at the nape of his neck.

  And handsome, which I found particularly obnoxious, given the way he was looking at me like I was something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. He ducked his head in a polite bow the moment I glanced his way, but that strong jaw remained clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

  His demeanor didn’t improve any over the course of our family dinner, an otherwise jovial affair filled with friendly banter, news, and stories. Though we were all bone-weary from the journey, we talked late into the night over the cold remnants of our meal.

  While the older members of our household chatted with my parents at the head of the table, Seth spent most of the evening regaling the rest of us with second-hand stories of our time at the fort while James and I exchanged guarded smiles across the table. Gabe and Preston, our two men-at-arms who resided in the city permanently, leaned in to listen and contribute the occasional anecdote from their own time under Samson’s heel. Quintin, on the other hand, seemed to take the recounting as some kind of personal insult. His pale blue eyes gradually hardened with fury, though he didn’t dare aim them at me.

  No one was brave enough to address him directly, but I wasn’t the only one casting curious glances his way. The militaristic scions of Tuvre largely keep to their own kind, traveling in insular legions that contract with various lords and merchants as need arises. It is unusual to see one alone. Though their fighting skill is legendary, Tuvrians are well-known to be a humorless, brutally conservative lot, and I couldn’t begin to fathom why my father would ever hire one into his service.

  As the evening waned, Quintin continued to ignore his nearly-full wine glass with impressive determination. He had drunk to my father’s toast over dinner, but after that, the glass had sat untouched.

  Three glasses of my own had me flushed with self-assurance. Irked by his obvious disdain for me, I decided it was time to get a better feel for this hard-eyed young man.

  “Do you dislike the wine, armsman?” I called lightly down the table.

  He blinked as he stirred from his sullen silence, clearly surprised to be addressed at all. No one had spoken to him all evening.

  “No, miss, it’s quite good.”

  I had caught him off-guard with my question, but only for a second. He recovered that stoic mask effortlessly, a shield as familiar to him as the blades on his back. Despite my ire, I couldn’t help but find myself impressed by it. Aside from my mother, I’d never known anyone with such flawless control.

  “Not thirsty?” I pressed with an innocent tilt of my head. By the way his features darkened, he wasn’t fooled. Still, he responded with the same flat detachment of a well-trained soldier, utterly devoid of emotion.

  “It is a matter of self-discipline, miss.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am on duty. Wine dulls the senses.”

  “Surely a single glass would not affect you so.”

  James and Seth chuckled quietly and I watched the Tuvrian’s jaw tighten in indignation.

  “Perhaps not,” he replied, his voice unwavering. “But one must restrict oneself to the proper choices befitting their station.” His icy eyes never left mine as a pang of pride resonated in my gut at his subtle barb. I could feel James’ gaze on me, tension settling over the room.

  “And you deem my actions unsuitable to my station?” I lilted in a carefully neutral tone, fighting the predatory snarl tugging at my lip.

  He held my gaze a moment longer before ducking his head in stiff obeisance. “I would not presume to judge your actions, miss.”

  “Good choice,” James muttered under his breath. If the armsman heard, he made no indication.

  Quintin stood and excused himself for the evening shortly thereafter, baldric rattling as he swept a graceful bow that none of us would have been able to match under the circumstances. Gabe leaned across the table toward me once he’d gone.

  “Don’t pay him any mind,” he murmured. “He’s from the far country. Tuvrians are strict with their women.”

  Despite the late night and my weary muscles, I slept poorly and woke with the first light. The fire in the small hearth in my quarters still smoldered dimly as I dressed, the breeches and thick tunic from the journey smelling faintly of horse but more or less clean. James and I had kept up our daily training exercises in the year since the garrison, and I had no intention of letting that hard-won skill slip into disuse.

  The house slept in hallowed silence while I made my way to the rear garden, an open-air quad surrounded by the manor on three sides, the fourth by a tall brick wall shrouded in ivy. A semicircular fountain abutted it, a great tree sculpted at the center of the basin. Though it had been emptied for the winter, snow dusted the branches and capped the small icicles that hung from them.

  Breathing deep, I stretched and drew my sword in the bitter cold of the morning. Cautious steps felt out my footing on the frozen grass as I progressed through the exercises Briggs had drilled relentlessly into our heads until we did them in our sleep. There is a kind of meditation in such things, where you surrender your body to itself. It calms your soul, balances you, clears your mind. The knots in my muscles from the journey gradually began to loosen and untie. My mind emptied, settling into that quiet, timeless place at my center as the rest of my body moved without direction.

  Before I realized, nearly an hour had passed and my sword was whirring before me in a smooth dance of steel, my feet moving in confident counterpoint. I couldn’t remember feeling the cold, or when it had begun to snow. When I’d finished, I sheathed my blade, shutting my eyes and tilting my head back to welcome the meandering crystals.

  “Your backstroke is sloppy.”

  I whirled, my hand flying back to my sword hilt. Quintin stood scowling in the arcade, arms crossed, eyes sparkling in the chill. He nodded to my belt.

  “And you have terrible instincts.”

  He unfolded and crossed the grass to me, grabbing my dagger sheath and tugging it indelicately from the side to the front of my belt.

  “If your enemy gets your back, you don’t have time for your sword. Keep your dagger at your front. It’s a faster draw, and your body blocks their view.”

  I tested the feel of it, wary of his intentions, given our icy introduction the night before. “My thanks.” I glanced at the two hilts jutting up over his shoulders and realized why he was there.

  “I’m finished, if you-”

  “I’ll use the courtyard.”

  He was already halfway to the door when the question surfaced in my mind.

  “Gabe says you swore yourself to my father,” I blurted out and watched him freeze in place. “In the old way.”

  He glanced back at me over his shoulder. Waiting.

  I shook my head when he didn’t reply. “This isn’t the King’s Guard. No one does that anymore.”

  Pale brows knit over paler eyes before he turned and started back toward the door.

  “We do.”

  A week after our arrival in Litheria, my mother and I went on an outing in the city. Despite our protests, Father insisted that we take one of our men-at-arms. Thankfully, Gabe volunteered to accompany us, else we would have been stuck with Quintin’s scowling visage all afternoon. In short order, we were on our way down the bustling streets toward the tailors’ quarter. Cobblestones clacked under the wheels of the carriage, and I gazed out the window at the throngs of people milling around the myriad shops and houses.

  My mother’s preferred seamstress lived on a remote street of the district. I admit I was skeptical when we stopped in front of a rather ordinary stone and wood structure that looked much like the houses on e
ither side of it. The only distinguishing feature was a faded wooden sign hanging over the entryway, a needle and bobbin painted on it. My mother led the way without hesitation, bells jangling cheerily over the door.

  “Missus Furgas, I told you, tomorrow!” came a woman’s exasperated voice from behind a floor-to-ceiling rack of various fabrics. “Unless you want it with only one sleeve-”

  She stopped short when she rounded the shelf and spotted us. Her face relaxed and brightened in one beautiful moment.

  “Lady Lazerin!” she exclaimed, bobbing a curtsy. “So wonderful to see you! When did you return to the city?”

  My mother waved her off. “Oh please, Sadie, just Nefira. Only a week past. Didn’t your mother tell you we were coming?”

  I suddenly realized why she looked familiar. My mother’s preferred seamstress was the grown daughter of Greta and Emmett, the retainers of our city manor. Though I had encountered her as a young child, she had left my parents’ household many years past to wed her husband, a soldier in the King’s Guard at the palace.

  Sadie shook her head and waved a hand. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, I’m a mess this morning.”

  A perfectly-fitted blue linen dress wrapped her slender frame, topped with a white sewing apron. A neat brown braid draped down her back, swishing back and forth as she hastily tidied a broad work table.

  “So what can I do for you? It’s a bit early yet for the Yule Gala, though you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “No, not just yet. We’ve been away a while and I fear we may be a bit out of fashion.” My mother stepped aside to reveal me behind her.

  One corner of Sadie’s lips quirked in an unexpectedly devilish smirk. “Going hunting, are we?” She proceeded to circle me, taking my measure with an artist’s calculating indifference. “Well,” she sighed. “Best get started.”

  Despite my initial skepticism, Sadie turned out to be a brilliant designer, sketching sleek concepts that would put me within acceptable range of current fashion but set me apart enough to be noticed. As we pored over countless fabric samples, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, James’ face swimming in my mind.

  When we left in the mid-afternoon, my request to visit the smith’s district was soundly rejected. Instead, our last stop of the day was the great Temple of Adulil at the heart of the city.

  The three of us made our way up the marble steps and into the vast open-air chamber, the walls covered with intricately carved panels depicting stories from the Book of Days. Two long swaths of the floor remained unpaved, tall golden wheat sprouting from the soil below, swaying in the breeze. Each chaff glowed, ripe for harvest in the late fall chill. These were the last of the crofter’s original fields, long since covered by Litheria’s sprawling expanse. As such, they were sacred to us, lovingly tended year after year by the priests and priestesses. Together, the two troughs created a golden pathway to the far end of the temple, where a larger-than-life statue of Adulil gazed down at his people. Above our heads, an oculus pierced the dome, afternoon light beaming down to illuminate the altar.

  It was a beautiful, peaceful, sacred place. A solemn tranquility pulsed in my veins as I walked along the wheat, running my hand through the feathered golden mass. Mother paid a priestess for three small sheaves of it tied with delicate white ribbon. Together, we made our offering at His altar, kneeling and placing ours among all the others at His feet. I gazed up at Adulil’s face, flushed with warmth despite the cold marble beneath my knees. My blood hummed in my ears as I searched that stone likeness for some semblance of clarity amidst the fog of my tumultuous youth. I thought of James, and of the gowns being made to draw suitors to me, lures of silk and satin. What would I say to my oldest friend, my first love, if those lures bore fruit?

  If He had any guidance for me, He kept it to himself.

  We returned home as afternoon gave way to early evening. Father greeted us in the foyer, waving a missive with a brown seal.

  “Augustus has invited us to dinner tonight,” he informed us, eyeing me with a knowing grin. My heart skipped at the thought of seeing Aubrey. I’d missed my friend dearly.

  “What time?” Mother asked, handing Emmett her shawl.

  “Seven.” When she moved to inspect the invite herself, he produced a second letter from his breast pocket, this one sealed with purple wax. “Reyus and Amelie sent one as well, for ten days hence. A small dinner party, it seems.”

  Mother’s calculating gaze flicked my way.

  “Ulrich and Feran,” I intoned automatically, dredging up the names of House Oristei’s two eligible sons with little effort. My parents waited in silence as I wrestled with the question Adulil had left unanswered.

  Whatever I had to say to James, this was my path. This was my purpose. No matter how much I loved him, no matter how much of myself I had to bury, I could not turn my back on my duty. Drawing myself up with quiet resolve, I met their patient attention.

  “Send our acceptance.”

  We had our first public engagement.

  CHAPTER 14

  I rushed down the steps in a flurry of skirts and excitement, the prospect of finally seeing Aubrey after eighteen long months painting an unshakeable smile on my face. Mother’s distant voice called my name from the foyer, her impatience echoing down the halls, and I redoubled my pace to meet them for the carriage.

  “You look nice.”

  James’ voice brought me to a startled halt and I turned to see him leaning against a door frame, arms and ankles crossed in his typical roguish manner. Guarded brown eyes evaluated me from under a mop of copper hair.

  “Better than a bloody tunic.” He tilted his head and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Although breeches certainly have some appeal.”

  My lips twisted in a half-hearted grin. “Buggerer.”

  We passed a moment of uncomfortable silence, the playful mood faltering. I glanced toward the front of the house, torn between rushing to meet my parents and lingering in the first private moment I’d had with James in weeks. A final threatening call from my father decided the matter for me.

  “I’m sorry, I must go. We’ve been invited-”

  “To dine with the Royal Poet and his son. Yes, I heard,” he finished curtly. I stiffened in surprise at the malice beneath his words.

  “It’s Aubrey-”

  “Miss Elivya,” Emmett interrupted, and I shut my mouth on the remainder of my protest. He stood in the archway to the foyer with brows raised, my green wolfskin cloak over one arm. “Your parents are waiting.”

  “Best hurry,” James muttered, turning away. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

  When we arrived at the Chamberlain manor, I was too distracted to feel nostalgia at walking up the brown stone steps I had climbed so many times before. My preoccupation melted away, however, upon seeing a long-missed face.

  “Dear gods, what have you done to yourself?”

  “Aubrey!” I exclaimed, practically throwing my cloak at the doorman and flinging myself into my friend’s outstretched arms. He embraced me tightly, lifting my feet off the floor in his fervor before releasing me. I beamed up at him, the sight of those warm amber eyes like a salve on my worried heart. “I’ve missed you.”

  He smiled back and kissed my cheek in reply, tucking me under his arm and guiding me toward the dining room. After swapping stories over a hearty supper, the lot of us retired to the salon to discuss the recent goings-on at Court, reclining on couches with wine in hand.

  “It seems House Oristei is making a play for the throne,” Augustus informed us, cradling his glass.

  “Oh?” my mother inquired, eyes lighting with interest. Given the invitation we’d just accepted from that same House, my own attention piqued as well.

  “Mm.” He chewed a grape thoughtfully and leveled a meaningful gaze at my father. “Reyus’ younger sister Rishel.”

  “Was she widowed?” Father inquired.

  “Never wed.”

 
“Why not?” I asked, bewildered. By all accounts, the scions of Oristei were a coveted lot, especially those born of its oldest and purest bloodline. Rare was the mention of a son or daughter of that ancient House that didn’t include a reference to their effortless grace or flawless beauty.

  Aubrey chimed in once it became obvious that no answer was forthcoming. Whatever had happened during the War, none of our parents seemed eager to speak of it.

  “She was originally promised to the old General Teresius when she was only fifteen. A political match, no more. Some trade agreements had turned sour between Ostris and Tuvria. Fortunately for Rishel, her father passed before the marriage could be finalized.”

  “One of the few good things to come from the War,” Augustus muttered around another mouthful of grapes.

  “Reyus canceled the agreement for love of his sister,” my mother contributed, adjusting her skirts in an abnormally stiff gesture. Beside her, Father remained silent, his face darkening at the topic, eyes shadowed by some haunted memory. I wondered, briefly, about Captain Rowan’s cryptic words to me that last day at the fort.

  He forgave her easily enough, all those years ago.

  Before I could turn the possibilities over in my head, Aubrey’s bard-like voice meandered on.

  “Sadly, the spurned General held some sway in society and spread a number of vicious rumors in retribution. Rishel was ostracized by the Court for over a decade.”

  “Nevertheless,” Augustus chimed back in, “she has recently reemerged in society and attends most public engagements. Just last month, she rode with the King at the autumn hunt. Nothing inappropriate, you understand, but they do seem to have developed a rapport.”

  My mother tapped her glass with one finger, considering. “Perhaps it’s time Amenon remarried. It has been so many years since Cerya died.”

  The haunted silence returned, that mournful tale weighing on us all. Queen Cerya had been a daughter of House Halkryn, a lesser Chamberlain bloodline well-known for the skill of their bards. She and Amenon had met as youths at Court just before the old king’s death. Their courtship had lasted through the tumult of the War, and they were married shortly after its bloody conclusion.