by Jasmine Walt
“If you do, I’d wait until after we’re all gone,” Sarian said. “Then, when there are only a few knights left to defend the castle, you can tell him that if he refuses, you’ll be on your merry way. That’ll put him in quite a pickle.”
Riann snorted. “That is either the best idea you’ve ever had, or the stupidest. It will either work stupendously, or Lord Tyrook will agree, then toss my arse out the moment the rest of you return.”
“Good point.” Sarian made a face. “Give me some time. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
Riann shook his head, reluctantly amused. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me what the real news is, since it clearly has nothing to do with my misfortune?”
“You may change your mind about that once I tell you,” Sarian said, giving him a pained look. “I’ve heard that Lord Sowell of Thrimm has asked for Tariel’s hand and has not yet been refused.”
Riann stiffened. He’d met Lord Sowell a few times—he was a fat, odious man with wandering hands. Riann liked to think of him as a pig draped in gold cloth—a thin veneer of wealth and manners spread over a lump of greed and ugliness. He could not imagine Tariel wedding someone like him.
“How long ago did Lord Sowell ask for her hand?” he asked. His interest was hardly unusual—half the men in the castle were in love with Tariel.
But, Riann thought, a little smugly, he was the only one of them who had ever kissed her. A stolen moment in the moonlit garden, when he’d come upon her quite by accident. She’d been crying, though to this day he knew not what about, and he’d taken her into his arms to comfort her without a second thought. The sensation of her soft, full lips, tinged with the tang of salt, still filled many a daydream of his, and though the two of them had never spoken of it, he often found himself detouring by the garden late at night, hoping to run into her.
But he never had run into her alone again, not before today. And he knew damn well why. Tariel would never risk being caught in his embrace, not when the consequences were so severe for both of them. As the brother of a woman who was suffering similar consequences now, he knew all too well what could happen if Tariel was found in the arms of a man who was neither her husband nor her intended.
Yes, it was best to get out of here before he did something they would both regret.
“Two weeks ago,” Sarian answered, drawing Riann’s attention back to the matter at hand. “I can only imagine that Tariel’s mysterious patron is either considering the match seriously, or their reply has been delayed for some reason.”
Riann let out a huff of disgust. “I don’t see why Lady Tyrook would give her to Lord Sowell but not to any of the men who’d asked before him.”
Sarian shrugged. “I imagine that if Lady Tyrook doesn’t get an answer from Tariel’s benefactor soon, she will agree to the match. She’s been wanting to get rid of Tariel for ages.”
The thought filled Riann with rage. Tariel had had so many perfectly acceptable suitors, men who were handsome and titled and would have treated Tariel like the prize she was. Instead, she was about to be handed off to an old, fat drunkard who had already gone through two wives.
It’s just an idle rumor, he reminded himself, turning his attention back to his horse. Besides, it wasn’t as if Tariel was completely powerless in the matter. Once the question was brought to her, Tariel would simply refuse, and Lord Sowell would turn his attentions elsewhere, just as the dozens of suitors before him had. The woman he loved could never be given to such a hateful old villain, not if there truly was any justice in this world.
5
After Tariel left Riann in the orchard, she fled back to the castle and took solace in her tower room. Her heart thrummed fiercely as she threw herself on the bed, which only increased the pounding in her head, and she curled her body around a pillow, closing her eyes and praying for relief.
Why, oh why, had she thought it was a good idea to visit Riann? His wound had been little more than a scratch, and would have healed just fine on its own. Spending time with him alone in the orchard, flirting and daring to touch his face, had been a terrible mistake. Her body ached with want, and it had taken everything she had to leave him in the gardens when what she had really wanted to do was find out if that kiss they’d shared two years ago was every bit as good as she remembered.
But she could do no such thing. Not when she had promised to abide by Roisen’s tenets. If she could just hold out a little bit longer, surely he would finally bless her with a husband who could take her away from Castle Tyrook. She could finally have her own estate, and the protection of a husband. So long as she kept him happy, and continued to hide her magic, she would be safe.
As the hours stretched on, the evening meal came and went. Her stomach grumbled,
but Tariel could not bring herself to move from the bed with her head aching so ferociously. Every time she thought it was becoming bearable, she would sit up, and the pounding would start again.
Was this Roisen’s way of punishing her for having forbidden talents? Was she destined to suffer through these terrible migraines the rest of her life? No matter how piously she behaved, how often she prayed, the god still refused protection when these episodes hit. It was almost as if he were taunting her into using her magic to find relief.
No, she told herself stubbornly. She could not give in. If this was a test, then by the gods, she would prevail.
Tariel wished that there was someone who she could talk to about all this. But the only confidante she’d ever had was just as equally off-limits to her as Riann, and she hadn’t been able to speak frankly to him in years. As she stared up at the ceiling, a young man with silver eyes and a gentle smile swam into her vision, and she smiled back at him. Calrain. The red-haired man she had grown up with kept to the clerk’s office most days, toiling away, but once upon a time, they had been fast friends. Oh, how she wished the two of them could sneak off together the way they used to, with books in their hands and their heads full of dreams…as foundlings, they’d shared a unique bond, and had once promised each other that should the day ever come, they would run away together and seek out adventures in the wild unknown, just like the heroes in the books they had read.
But those had been childish fantasies, and as the two of them had grown up, circumstances had forced them to grow apart. Calrain was destined to become a Brother of Roisen, and she was destined to become some man’s wife. There could be nothing between them.
A knock on the door startled her, nearly splitting her head in two. “What is it?” she called weakly. The effort was too much, and her voice came out more like a whimper than a question.
The door opened, and Marta, one of the serving girls, came in. “Oh, Miss Tariel,” she gasped, her hazel eyes growing wide. She rushed over to Tariel’s bedside and felt her forehead. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just a headache,” Tariel said through gritted teeth. Another wave of pain wracked her, and she shut her eyes, bearing down on it. “What do you need?”
“Lady Tyrook sent me to fetch you,” Marta said in a worried voice. “Normally, I would go back and tell her you are indisposed, but she seemed quite insistent—”
“It’s fine,” Tariel managed. She sat up, and the room spun. “Just give me a moment or two, and I’ll be along.”
“Are you sure?” Marta asked, wringing her hands. Tariel couldn’t blame her for worrying—if Marta were to open a window right now, the breeze that came through would likely lay Tariel flat against the bed again. “At least let me get you some bread and water. You missed the midday meal, didn’t you?”
“All right,” Tariel said wearily. “Some food might help.”
Marta shut the door behind her, and Tariel took a deep breath. Slowly, she rose from the bed, then took a few experimental steps. Magic screamed in her veins, and when she looked down at her hands, she was horrified to see purple energy crackling at her fingers.
“Stop that this instant!” she cried, thoroughly fed up. “Can’t you
see we’ll die if you keep this up?”
She slammed the flat of her hand against the wall, which was a mistake. The magic clinging to her fingers leapt eagerly from flesh to stone. Tariel cried out as the limestone began transforming into glass. She tried to stop it, but the magic would not be denied, and the next thing she knew, she had a new window in her tower room.
“No, no, no,” she groaned, pressing her hand against the window pane. She tried to undo it, but the buildup of magic in her system had been released, and she had no more power to draw upon. It would take time to recharge, and by then, someone might come in and see the window.
“At least it’s a nice view,” she muttered. The castle gardens flourished, flowers blooming riotously, and beyond, the sprawling tundra, unusually green, led to snow-capped mountains in the distance. Fjordland was a cold, harsh place for most of the year, but during spring and summer, the snow and ice receded to reveal the beautiful landscape.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t risk someone realizing the window was out of place. She would have to find a tapestry to cover it up. There were some unused ones in the storage room that no one would miss, if she could just find a way to bring one up unseen…
“Miss Tariel?” Marta called from the hallway. Tariel spun around and rushed to open the door just as the doorknob was turning.
“Thank you, Marta,” she said fervently, opening the door just wide enough for Marta to pass the serving tray through. She took the tray from her, which had a hunk of bread, some cheese, and a small cup of water. “I can take it from here.”
“Are you sure?” Marta asked. “You could barely stand when I left you—”
“I took a tonic, and I’m feeling much better now,” Tariel insisted. “Please, tell Lady Tyrook I’ll be along shortly. I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her summons.”
“Yes, that’s a good point, Miss,” Marta relented, stepping back. “I’ll tell her right away.”
Tariel shut the door behind her, then set the tray on top of her dressing table. Now that her headache was gone, her hunger returned with a roaring vengeance, and she quickly devoured the simple meal. Sated, she checked her hair in the small mirror and brushed away any lingering crumbs from her mouth. She locked the door behind her and made her way to Lady Tyrook’s solar.
The solar was located on the south side of the castle, where plenty of light could filter through the windows during the summer months. Lady Tyrook often took her private meetings in this room, and Tariel had been called on the carpet there more than once. Her stomach tightened as she hurried down the corridor as fast as she could manage while still being ladylike, wondering what she had done now to merit the matriarch’s attention.
“Come in,” Lady Tyrook’s harsh voice called when she knocked on the door.
Tariel swallowed her nerves and entered.
Lady Tyrook sat near the bank of windows on the opposite end of the room, her long, thin fingers working deftly at some knitting project. She wore a high-collared dress with loose white sleeves that tightened into cuffs at her wrists, and a wide, embroidered skirt that flared out from the waist. The years had not been kind to her, carving lines in her once-beautiful face, adding silver to her dull blonde hair, and gravel to a voice that had probably been quite lovely in her youth.
“You’re late,” Lady Tyrook said, putting her knitting aside. “I sent for you a half hour ago.”
Marilla, seated next to her mother, smirked.
Tariel’s stomach plummeted at the triumphant look in Marilla’s eyes, but she did her best to ignore her. “My apologies,” Tariel said, dipping into a brief curtsy. “I am suffering from a terrible headache.”
Lady Tyrook’s eyes snapped fire. “I thought you were taking a tonic for those headaches, girl,” she barked. “How am I supposed to marry you off if you’re an invalid? No man wants a wife who is laid up in bed day and night.”
“That doesn’t seem to have stopped any of the suitors you’ve sent away,” Tariel pointed out before she could stop herself. She took offense at being called an invalid—aside from the headaches, which were not as frequent as Lady Tyrook made them out to be, she was in perfect health and never got so much as a cold.
Lady Tyrook looked like she wanted to rebuke Tariel for her impertinence, but she let it go. “It is not my fault the queen has rejected every suit that has come your way,” she said stiffly. Her thin lips curled into a smile. “Luckily, Roisen has smiled upon me, for she has not made any reply regarding your latest. I can only assume that she finds no fault in the match, and as I can hardly keep Lord Sowell waiting, I have accepted on your behalf. You will wed him in eight days’ time.”
“Lord Sowell of Thrimm?” Tariel gasped, recoiling in horror. She’d known about his suit, of course, but assumed the queen would reject him just as she had all the others. “No, this cannot be!”
Marilla’s smirk widened. “Of course it can, and I don’t understand why you are so unhappy. You’ve been wanting to marry and leave the castle, haven’t you, Tariel?”
“I have always been grateful for your family’s hospitality,” Tariel said, refusing to take the bait. “I have no wish to encroach upon it any longer than necessary, Lady Tyrook, but surely you cannot expect me to marry such a horrible man. If the queen has not formally agreed to the match, I refuse to accept.”
Lady Tyrook glowered at her. “The queen is deathly ill, and therefore we cannot expect her to make a decision on the matter. For all we know, she could be dead already, and I simply have not received word yet.”
Tariel reeled at this news. “You would go ahead without her consent?” She tried to wrap her head around the concept. She knew the queen was ill, but it hadn’t occurred to her that she might actually die before Tariel had met her. She always assumed that one day she would, and would finally get the chance to ask about her true parentage. If the queen died, she would never discover the truth.
“Yes,” Lady Tyrook confirmed, “and in the absence of other instructions, and any dowry set aside for you, it is high time you marry. Lord Sowell may not be young or handsome, but he is titled and wealthy, and you will finally have the chance to be mistress of your own manor. What more could a bastard child want?”
Anger flared in Tariel’s chest, but thankfully, her magic was too weak to cause a reaction this time. Biting back the scathing retort scalding her throat, she pushed aside her anger and tried frantically to think of a way out.
“I…this is all so very sudden,” she said, pretending to waver. “I do not know Lord Sowell and am not comfortable agreeing to a match with a total stranger. I would speak to him before I give you my decision.”
Marilla’s mouth turned down at that, but Lady Tyrook nodded. “You will get your chance,” she said grudgingly. “I will send word to him and arrange the meeting. In the meanwhile, you will be confined to your room on bread and water, to give you time to reflect on your situation.”
Tariel excused herself, then left the room on unsteady feet. Her stomach writhed in revulsion, and it took great effort to keep down the meal she’d hurriedly eaten. The idea of wedding Lord Sowell was beyond repulsive. Was there any way to get him to change his mind? Perhaps she could behave so horridly at their meeting that she would drive him away.
No…Sowell would just take that as a challenge, she thought. From all she had heard of him, he was the type to relish forcing her, and put little stock in women’s feelings. Lady Tyrook was wrong—she would not be the mistress of his manor, but rather his slave. She had no doubt she would be black and blue by the end of her first week as his wife.
The more she thought about what was in store for her with Lord Sowell, the angrier she grew. Heat rose in her blood, and she clenched her fists so hard her nails bit into her palms. Was this what being a good, obedient woman got her? A marriage to a fat, slovenly pig who would value her less than a prized horse? All this time she’d spent suppressing her magic, praying to Roisen…it had all been for nothing!
“Enough,�
� she seethed, slamming her tower room door behind her. The sound echoed down the stairs, loud enough for the servants to hear, but she didn’t care. She was tired of hiding her true feelings, tired of pretending that she didn’t hate Lady Tyrook and her family and all the other women here who berated and belittled her simply for being different. She could never be good enough for them, no matter how hard she tried, so what was the point of keeping up this charade?
But as she stood by her new window, looking out at the garden where she had once stolen a few carefree moments with her childhood friend, Calrain, she realized those differences would be her undoing. Even if she could jump out of this window and run away, where would she go? Her unusual dark coloring, so like the Maroyan witches from the south, would only bring her scorn and persecution. Terrible storms, long winters, and bad harvests had stricken the land these past ten years, and in response, Jerrold the Relentless had doubled his witch-hunting efforts. Nearly three hundred women had been burned at the stake, and with the natural disasters growing worse every year, the Fjordlanders grew more and more eager to help Jerrold ferret out more scapegoats.
No, the roads were too dangerous for her to travel alone, especially without a horse. And there was no one she could ask to accompany her—Riann was a knight, sworn in service to Lord Tyrook, and Calrain was set to swear his vows to the Brotherhood of Roisen any day now. Even if they were willing to help her, she could not ask it of them. Doing so would ruin their lives, and she had nothing to offer them.
No, she would have to do her best to convince Lord Sowell that she was not worth marrying. If she could not, she might very well try to make a run for it…even death at the stake was better than submitting to a rapist and a murderer and being forced to carry his child.
6
“Make sure that you get that sent off right away,” Lady Tyrook ordered as Calrain finished dictating her letter. “I want this business concluded as quickly as possible.”