“No, Grandina,” he said. “I accept your generous hospitality.”
Dethan saw her smile, and with a nod, she turned to go. The jenden reached to take her hand and lead her inside, but she withdrew from him, the rebuff marked. To say he was not pleased with the rejection was an understatement, but he seemed to stiffly keep his composure and moved away from the grandina as she entered her home.
“Follow me,” the page said.
Selinda was tired of pretending to enjoy the jenden’s company, so as soon as they were out of the general public eye, she withdrew from the attentions of her intended. It sickened her every time she thought of herself being bonded for the rest of her life to that grasping, twisted man. She was not deluded as to what kind of man the jenden was. The trouble was her father was completely fooled by the jenden and would hear nothing against him, not even from his own daughter. She had tried on countless occasions to open her father’s eyes, to make him see that all the jenden wanted was her father’s seat on the throne of Hexis. She did not underestimate the avarice that motivated Grannish. She feared for her father. Feared that shortly after she was forced to wed Grannish some horrible accident might befall her father, just as it had befallen her brothers and sisters. She had not always been heir. Now she was and wished for all the world that she wasn’t. She wished her brother Jorry was still alive. He had been so strong and so assured. He would never have allowed his sister to be sold to a man like Grannish.
But Jorry was gone now and her father thought he was securing his city by pledging her to Grannish.
She moved quickly through the halls of the fortress, heading directly toward her rooms. Her days had been reduced to the untenable boredom of being waited on and kowtowed to by a man she despised. All of it a display when she knew, could feel in her soul, that he hated her almost as much as she hated him. He was cruel and there was something wrong inside him. And for the life of her, she could not understand why a man as bright as her father was could not see it for himself.
She sailed into her rooms and her pagettes came out of the woodwork like busy little bees, divesting her of her walking dress and bringing a tub of water for her to wash her hands and feet in, scrubbing away the mud of the city. The pagettes took her clothes away and would do the same with them, making them clean again for the next time she would wear them. Meanwhile, they brought in the fresh dress she requested and redressed her long, curling hair into a less severe upswept style that left a waterfall of curls tumbling down her back. She did not like to wear any part of her hair down when in the city. It seemed to just accumulate mud and dirt when it was left that way. But now that they would be within the confines of the fortress, she could wear it freely.
She also changed into an evening corset, a more formal corset that was longer, smoothing the lines of her body into a very correct and straight silhouette. The dress came next, a dove-gray velveteen that dropped straight to the ground, without the typical leather mud guarding that trimmed the bottom of all her day and walking gowns. She held out her hands and they were gloved. She arched her neck and it was bejeweled with a stunning minx-fire necklace, the red of it, it was said, redder than the deepest fires of the eight hells. Her teal-blue hat was replaced by one of gray, the veil on it longer than that on the previous one, the stiff netting covering the entire left side of her face. She had grown quite used to seeing the world through the threads of a veil and would probably feel naked without it. It might be considered silly, she supposed. Everyone knew what was hiding beneath the camouflage. Everyone knew she was burned and scarred, and ugly because of it.
But … but that man. That strange and strong man who had defeated the brute in the shivov fight, who had taken a purse but not the humiliating kiss that Grannish had offered as a prize … In spite of his rejecting the kiss, he had somehow made her feel as though she were … beautiful.
He had no courtly manners, had no grasping desires. And if she allowed herself to think it, it was possible he had joined the shivov fight … for her. Simply so she would not have to kiss a pig of a man.
“Foolish girl.” She tsked to her reflection. “Romanticizing a man covered in mud.”
But he had not been just any man. He was big, as tall as any man she’d ever seen, towering above them all. He’d had tremendous muscle definition underneath all that mud plastered to his skin. She found herself eager to see what was underneath the crust of it. As it was, two things had stood out to her. One, that he had eyes as green as the greenest clover in the fields. She had never seen such a green on a person before. Her people, they were dark of hair and dark of eye. She was one of the few in the city with eyes of blue, and she had them only because her mother had come from a land apart from this one. But her mother was dead. Her eldest brother, also blue of eye, was dead. Now only she remained, her youngest brother dark-eyed like their father, and if the trend continued, he too would soon be dead. It seemed she was cursed with fine health, she thought fatalistically.
The other thing she found startling about the man were his burns. She had never met anyone of such strength and vitality before, and somehow it was as though his burns did not even exist for him. He had not let them hinder him. She couldn’t tell just how extensive his burning had been—she hoped to see more clearly once he was divested of all that mud—but somehow … with those eyes and that full head of dark hair, he was still amazingly handsome. More so than Grannish, that was certain. Grannish had a narrow sort of pinched look about him, as though he were constantly smelling something that was a little bit off.
Then again, compared to Grannish she would find anyone to be more handsome, possibly even that pig at the shivov fights. Her vision was colored by contempt for the jenden. Whether it was deserved or not, whether it was fair or not, she hardly even knew anymore. The whole business had made her weary and endlessly unhappy. She had come to realize her future was a bleak one unless something extraordinary happened. The future was bleak for them all unless something extraordinary happened.
She refused to dwell on that just then. She had found a diversion in this man and she was determined to use it to its fullest extent. She needed some activity, some excitement for her mind. Even if it was just an exercise in curiosity, it was a distraction from the painful responsibilities of her life.
“Hanit, color my lips. I wish for them to stand out.”
Hanit stood and blinked for a moment, looking as though she were unsure she had heard her mistress correctly. That made some sense of course. Hanit had been trained to play down anything and everything that might draw attention to her mistress’s face. Selinda could not have explained the desire even if the pagette had found the voice to question it. Instead Hanit went in search of a coloring pot and brush, appearing with them shortly and proceeding to paint her mistress’s lips the colors of the setting sun, from blue to lavender to violet. Selinda’s mouth glistened with color.
“A beautiful job,” Selinda complimented Hanit with more than a little wonder in her voice. “I did not know you could do this.”
“You never asked before, grand lady,” Hanit said in a low, deferential tone. Hanit was relatively new to Selinda’s rooms. The pagette had replaced an old and dear friend who had fallen ill and died in the summer plagues a full turning of the seasons past. The curse of this wet city was its plagues. No one could get dry, it seemed, and illness festered in the wet, muddy mess. Even in summer, when the sun baked the mud and made it hard, all it took was a single day of rain for everything to be wet again. Then illness would come in the wake of it.
Selinda did not want to think of death when she was looking at her sun-streaked lips. She wanted for once to act as though there were no troubles in her world. That she was not ugly and burned. That she was not going to marry a vile little worm. That her city might not last long enough for her to inherit.
No. Tonight, all she wanted to think about was a stranger. A man. Someone … different. That was it. He was somehow just … different. Maybe tonight at dinner she woul
d be able to figure out just what that difference was. And then later, after the sun dropped and let night reign, maybe she would speak with him or play games with him or find some way for him to further entertain her. Maybe if he was truly interesting she could convince her father to let him stay on in the castle for a day or two. Not for long. Just … for a little while.
Eager now, she arose from her dressing bench and hurried to the door of her rooms. The pagette opened it as she approached, and Selinda came up short when she saw Jenden Grannish standing in the doorway. For all his leanness of form, he had a presence to him that could not be ignored, no matter how hard she might try. It was like a malevolent cloud that darkened her days and nights constantly, one that would not move away no matter how hard she tried to escape it.
“My dear,” he greeted. Then he drew himself up short, his dark eyes narrowing on her with a frightening ferocity. He reached out, his hand like a sudden viper around her arm, his strength unmistakable as he jerked her closer to himself. “What is this?” he hissed into her face. With his free hand, his thumb smeared across her colored lips. “Are you mad? You paint yourself like a brightly colored whore?”
She gasped and tried to push him away before he ruined Hanit’s lovely work. “The highest ladies in this court wear similar!” she protested.
“The highest ladies of this court are not monstrously scarred. I would think you would avoid drawing attention to the fact that you are.”
“Stop it,” she cried as he continued to smear his fingers over her lips.
“Off! Remove it this instant! I’ll not have my future bride parading herself around as though she had some sort of beauty to be proud of. Accept what you are, Selinda. Just as I must do my duty as asked by my grand. I have promised to wed you in spite of your deformities, but I will not have you drawing attention to them and making a laughingstock of yourself!”
The whole of his palm smeared across her lips, bruising the flesh both outside and inside, where the sharpness of her teeth cut into the tender skin he was mashing against them. The color, she could feel, was not just being wiped away. He was streaking it over her skin. But when his hand touched the scar at her jaw, she cried out and struck him away, shoving at him with all her strength as tears of shame burned in her eyes. She fought to keep herself from crying, however, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.
“Very well, I will wash it off!” she spat out.
“I have half a mind to drag you to table looking as you are, like a painted, grisly little doll. Your father would be humiliated and the court would laugh to see such a disgusting sight. But I will spare your father the shame of it. Wash up. I am impatient to go to table. I want to see them seat the stinking, mangled mud farmer at your side. The two of you should make quite a pair.”
Tears hovering in her eyes, Selinda shrugged him off one last time and went back into her room, where Hanit, bless her kind soul, was ready with a damp cloth to help her wash the sunset away from her lips.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Grannish led Selinda into the main dining hall. As usual, it was abustle with noise and activity. Servers abounded, bringing in great trays of foods, their rich smells wafting throughout the room. Courtly guests milled about their chairs, chattering and gossiping about one another, creating a sort of noisy hum in the air.
Grannish had Selinda’s right hand grasped firmly in his own, the twisted pair of them raised elegantly high. When they entered, the room came to immediate attention. Those who had been seated stood at once. Grannish knew it was not for him that this respect was being given but for this mangled little harlot. But soon, one day soon, he would be grand and they would be coming to attention for him. They would be respecting him in this way. The way he deserved to be respected. After all, who was she but the imperfect get of an idiot king? He had no respect for either of them. Especially not this intemperate little girl. She took great delight in setting him down in public, knowing he had to defer to her in all things by law and in the eyes of the masses. But he would make her pay for each and every slight she thought to cast in his direction.
Tonight’s guest, for instance. He had made sure she would be seated next to her muddied guest. Grannish himself would sit across the table as far from the stench of him as was possible, but she would be made to suffer for her folly. Inviting a lowborn to table. The very idea of it was repugnant to him. No doubt it would be to her father too. Grannish would let the grand witness his daughter seated beside a pig of a farmer and he would see for himself why his daughter should not be allowed to make decisions for herself. Then Grannish would be able to exert more control over her. Then he would be able to keep her in her place.
Oh, how he wished he did not need her at all. But his blood was not royal. It was barely even noble. A fact he worked hard to have everyone forget. Only by the grace of his ability to advise the grand had he been able to rise so high in his esteem. High enough for the grand to offer his heir’s hand in marriage. But Grannish wished he could be grand without having to saddle himself with the wretched creature. He would wed someone very different if he had a choice in the matter.
His eyes immediately tracked to Likessa. As always the perfect beauty was surrounded by courtiers, the center of all attentions and affections. A true grandina if there ever was one, in everything but title and blood. She was deserving of the position this carcass now possessed. Beauty like hers should be revered and celebrated. And beyond beauty, she was of perfect grace and manners. Every movement, even the lightest floating of her hand to her dinner fork, was a thing of elegance and refinement. He watched as one of the lords hastened to pull out a chair for Likessa, whom Grannish had seated next to him. At least he would have the joy of her company, even as he enjoyed his fiancée’s humiliation.
Ever the perfect escort, he guided Selinda to her chair, noting that her companion for the evening had yet to arrive. That meant everyone would already be seated by the time he arrived, and that would make him the center of attention and even more of a delightful spectacle. Oh yes, this promised to be quite a diversion.
The grand entered the room and everyone nodded their heads in respect, palms pressed flat against their stomachs. He sat down immediately, barely noticing the crowd around him, as was usual. No, the grand’s attentions were never concerned with the court undercurrents. He had no interest in them unless they ran counter to his desires. Yet he did not consider himself an oblivious man. He trusted his advisor, the jenden, to keep him apprised of any situations that needed his attention, which left him free to pursue other fascinations. Such as hunting and, upon occasion, charming a young woman. He had not strayed from his wife in all his years of marriage, but once he had finished mourning her, he had found himself feeling newly free to enjoy the attentions of the women of his court, and enjoy them he did. But any woman with the idea that she might actually become granda one day was simply deluding herself. The grand had loved only one woman and would forever love her. The man would never choose to follow her with anyone subpar. The grand would never insult her memory in such a way.
But taking a mistress and practically fawning over her at his end of the table, seating her directly to his right, where she could hold and fondle his hand, where she could occasionally lean toward him and draw his attention to her young, healthy breasts, well, that was entirely in the realm of possibilities. Gwynn was a spicy little redhead who barely came up to the grand’s shoulder, but she had all the curves in the world to make up for what she lacked in height. She was also quite beautiful, with her pale, flawless skin, her long elegant neck, and her pretty fey features. But there was calculation in her eyes. Yet another thing the grand could not see. But it was clear to all that she had quite a shrewdness to go with her sparkling wit.
As everyone settled into their seats, the grandina kept her head down, self-consciously tugging her veil into place and rubbing at her bruised lips. They were a little swollen and red from the jenden’s rough treatment, and her eyes were wet from
continually filling with tears, which she fought back. She would not give Grannish the satisfaction. She sat up ramrod straight and looked longingly toward her father. The jenden was on his immediate left and Gwynn was on his immediate right, leaving her at Gwynn’s right, the woman between them. And anyway, she could not tell her father of Grannish’s treatment, for he would not hear it. He would make up some kind of excuse or accuse her of blowing things out of proportion. If she called Grannish out in front of him, it would only anger the jenden more, and the next thing he did would be even crueler. Oh, Grannish would never leave distinctive marks on her. No cuts or bruises she could point to as proof to her father and make the grand honestly question him, but there were other things he could do. And over time Grannish had proved to be quite creative when it came to his cruelties.
She was not in the mood to eat, but a quelling look from Grannish had her reaching for some bread and some meat and cheese. She could make the pretense of eating these things, perhaps feeding them to her father’s hunting dogs, who were seated attentively around the edges of the room. If they saw so much as a crumb drop, they would dart forward to gobble it up, then move back to their places. They were not allowed to beg, but they would sit and drool in anticipation of a guest possibly calling them forward to feed them a treat.
She had just called the wine steward forward to fill her glass when a man entered the far end of the room. She froze in place, putting down her glass before the boy could fill it. She shooed the boy back when he blocked her view of the man.
He was tall. So very tall. He had a square, beautiful jawline, hair as brown and soft looking as a fru’s winter coat, and there were those stunning green eyes. If not for those three things, she would never have recognized him as the mud-caked man of earlier. She would swear on her father’s life that she had never seen shoulders so broad or arms so well muscled. Someone had given him leggings, ones that molded tightly to every well-muscled contour of his legs and snuggled close to … other large portions of his body. If not for the leggings being black, they would have been truly obscene. Selinda found herself swallowing back a strange and unexpected dryness in her throat, her face flushing hot as she thought of what he might look like without those leggings on. She shocked herself. She was not the sort to think such things. In fact, wondering about men was something she simply didn’t indulge in. She had neither the luxury nor the inclination. She had her unhappy life to attend to; there was no room in it for sexual flights of fancy.
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