“I’m sorry,” Derek blurted before he could think of a more diplomatic way to broach the subject.
“For what?”
He wasn’t going to make it any easier for him, was he? Well, Derek couldn’t really blame him. If Callan wanted honesty, he had no problem with that.
“For discussing sordid gossip about you out in the open,” he said, unflinching.
Callan’s eyebrows shot up. He closed the book and placed it back on the table.
“Don’t fret about it.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Were you the one who killed my father at Laurel Falls?” Derek asked suddenly.
It was a stupid question, and it was all Macon’s fault for planting it in his head. Not like it would make any difference one way or another; he wasn’t going to storm out in righteous indignation even if Callan were to give an affirmative answer. Whether he’d be able to live with himself afterward was another matter, but no one cared about that anyway.
Callan didn’t give any indication he was outraged by the question, but it clearly wasn’t the one he expected.
“No,” he said after an infinitesimal pause. “I wasn’t the one.”
He didn’t offer anything else, and Derek didn’t press further. And of course, Callan might be lying. But something eased in Derek’s chest at the answer.
Callan grimaced.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it had to come to this. Fighting against fellow citizens of the realm is not a choice I would make of my own accord.”
This was as close as Callan would come to criticizing his father’s decision to a stranger, Derek realized. He felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for him. Count Johan had been a difficult man, but from everything he’d heard, Derek suspected his father’s obstinacy couldn’t rival Duke Bergen’s iron will. As the heir, Derek had always known he’d marry for political gain rather than love. Considering his personal tastes, he supposed he was lucky to be matched with a man, but Callan might have thought very differently about this entire ordeal.
“I’m sorry too,” Derek said softly, and he meant it. The punishment was the same for them both—saddled with a husband neither wanted.
He wanted to ask more. Of course he did. The notion that the man he was going to marry in just a few days’ time might be a cold-blooded killer was nothing if not disturbing. But while Derek had the right to demand the truth about Callan’s role in his father’s demise, he couldn’t inquire the same about Callan’s late wife, whom he knew nothing about, not even her name. And while the other man’s presence, imposing as it was, didn’t make Derek feel threatened, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear an honest answer to that particular question. Although, if he was looking for grounds for future annulment, an admission of guilt would go a long way toward getting him out of this mess.
The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Derek should have probably headed out to find the main hall and leave Callan in peace, since he gave no indication of wanting to continue the conversation. But he’d intended to meet with Derek before, so he must have wanted something beyond broody staring.
“Did you…want to talk to me earlier?” Derek asked hesitantly.
“Yes.” Callan’s gaze raked over him, pausing on his sling for a long moment before locking on to his eyes. “My father wishes to expedite the wedding. It’s to take place tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
Derek realized he was gawking and closed his mouth. He had expected to have at least a week to prepare, to familiarize himself with the duke’s family, get to know his intended a little better—which, all things considered, was perhaps a foolish endeavor. This came as a blow, though he hardly expected to be somehow fortuitously excused from his commitment even if he had extra time. “Why?”
“There’s some trouble along the northern coast,” Callan said curtly. “Nothing that should concern you, but it must be seen to as soon as possible, and the duke doesn’t want to delay.”
“All right,” Derek said slowly. Any matter which required cutting short the festivities surrounding the wedding of the duchy’s heir apparent certainly didn’t sound like “nothing.” But Derek was in no position to object.
At least Macon wouldn’t have as many opportunities to put him out of countenance, he thought, still digesting this new turn of events.
“Come. We’ll be late for dinner,” Callan said, rousing Derek from his reverie, and headed to the door, brushing past him in the narrow space, so close Derek caught a whiff of the sage-scented soap on his skin.
He had no choice but to follow. Before exiting, he threw a last glance at the book Callan had left on the table. The gilded lettering on the worn leather binding read The Customs, Dialects, and Sorcery of the Outer Isles.
Chapter Four
THE MAIN HALL was decked out in preparation for the grand wedding feast, but signs of haste were visible upon closer inspection. The roses that had been commissioned from the orangeries at Reithen hadn’t yet arrived, and instead of live garlands, the pillars were wrapped in stark white draperies, which lent the space a somber look. Smells of roasting pork and venison wafted through the entire keep, and the carts heaped with produce hastily acquired from the surrounding farms were coming through the gate in an incessant procession under Medwin’s watchful eye. Callan had never seen the castellan so harried, but he managed to weather the enormous undertaking of orchestrating a stately wedding on a nonexistent schedule with the stoical grace of an old general.
In truth, Callan couldn’t care less about the food and the flowers, or the lack thereof. The wedding was nothing more than a sham, and a pesky waste of time that kept him from his task. With Leandre’s help, he’d used all the spare hours he had to make sure his men were ready to ride the morning after the ceremony, which was no easy feat considering the castle was already in a purposeful uproar. But now all the horses had been shod, all the tack had been mended, all the provisions had been packed. Tomorrow, at least, would see no minute of ill-advised delay.
“I can’t believe I don’t get to give you a proper bachelor’s send-off,” Leandre had said when they’d left the stables. “Kind of takes all the fun out of having a wedding, if you ask me.”
Callan, who was in even less of a mood for an informal bash than for a formal wedding, had grunted noncommittally. It seemed everybody was looking forward to tonight’s celebration but him. And perhaps the other groom.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much fun anyway,” he’d said.
“You never are, these days,” Leandre had said softly, and he’d pretended not to hear her.
The upper gallery around the main hall offered a good view of the tables below as they were covered in tablecloths and laden with dishes. Callan paused opposite the dais, on a spot where the musicians would be seated in the evening, overlooking the massive mosaic that depicted his family’s crest on the wall, a silver wolf’s head on a field of black.
Sans the flowers and the guests that were still to arrive, the sight was disconcertingly familiar. Callan gripped the banister, the memories of the same ceremony two years ago threatening to overwhelm him. He hadn’t been happy then, and he was not happy now, and the loss of everything that had happened in between the two points in time was still a gaping wound he tried futilely to patch up.
“Callan?” a soft voice called from behind him.
It took him an embarrassingly long second to compose himself before he turned to face Adele.
His sister was already dressed in a formal court gown, its high collar tipped with delicate silver lace. Her long dark hair was arranged in intricate braids around her head like a crown, pinned with tiny gleaming pearls. She’d never been considered a great beauty, but at that moment, she was positively lovely, a wide smile brightening her features.
At least one of them was joyous today, and Callan forced a smile too so as to not ruin her mood.
“You look so pretty. Planning on breaking some hearts at the feast?”
Adele gig
gled shyly.
“And you’re not anywhere near ready!” she scolded. “You’ll be late, and your groom will be disappointed.”
“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Callan said.
“Oh, you’re incorrigible. He seems nice, though. And handsome.”
It would only take someone as kindhearted as Adele to describe Count Derek as “handsome.” Not that he was by any means repugnant, but he was certainly not the type of person Callan was usually attracted to, both physically and emotionally, however pretty his eyes might be. Perhaps it was for the best under the circumstances.
“His brother, too,” Adele continued.
Callan glanced around instinctively to make sure this sentiment wouldn’t reach the duke’s ears. Callan himself might be used as a bargaining chip in his father’s political machinations, but he knew Bergen envisioned a much loftier fate for Adele than falling for one of Camria’s unfortunate brood.
“I hope you’re not talking about the sulky one,” he said.
“No, the tall fair one.”
“Could be worse, I suppose. Will you play for us at the feast?”
“If you want. I hope your groom won’t be opposed, though.”
For a talented musician and, in Callan’s humble opinion, a true prodigy with the violin, despite the lack of proper training in their provincial little town, Adele was far too modest. He really should work on convincing Father to send her to a musical school in the capital, like she’d always wanted.
He offered her his hand, and they descended into the hall, where Adele gently nudged him toward the exit after standing on her toes and kissing him on the cheek.
“Go. I need to practice before tonight, and you should get dressed, or you’re going to miss your own wedding.”
If only it were that easy.
THE VOWS WERE to be taken in the castle chapel. It was already packed with onlookers, most of them castle dwellers, since the local gentry hadn’t yet made their way to Irthorg from their country estates. There were a lot of people who were bound to be disappointed by the decision to speed up the proceedings.
Callan knelt before the altar, pretending to be fascinated with the carved details of the statues of Gwenna and Gwaithil, the gods-protectors of the coastal regions of the Great Realm of Ivicia. At some point, the ancient gods must have lost interest in Mulberny, because Callan was anything but impressed with the extent of their protection. At least their serene faces, forever frozen in marble, provided a distraction from the man beside him.
The duke and Adele stood to the right, surrounded by the few nobles who were lucky to have been at the castle at the right time. Bergen’s expression was as stony as ever, but Adele beamed at him with such undiluted happiness Callan had no choice but to smile reluctantly in return.
The Camrians stood to the left, the two boys and a few of their guards behind them. The older one, the one Adele found agreeable but who had a penchant for spreading gossip—Ivo, Callan thought his name was—was listening to the priestess chant the opening blessings, while the younger was watching Derek and him with a scowl he didn’t bother to conceal. All of them were pointedly wearing mourning gray, despite the ostensibly joyous occasion. Even Derek, though dressed in a rich white ensemble befitting a groom of his stature, was sporting a gray ribbon tied around his right forearm. The ends of it pooled onto the flagstone floor as he knelt, hand on his thigh, his eyes downcast. A large signet ring set with a green stone sparkled on his finger. It appeared too robust for his slender hand.
Priestess Nehewia concluded the blessings, and at her sign, blue-robed attendants brought two silver goblets, filled to the brim with red wine, and placed them in Derek and Callan’s hands as they turned to face each other, still kneeling.
“Derek of Camria.” The priestess’s deep voice rolled through the chapel as the crowd grew quiet. The dusky color of her robes accentuated the deep sepia tone of her skin, typical for those hailing from the far south, from beyond the Inner Sea. “Do you swear to honor this man as your husband with your body, mind, and soul, to bestow upon him your love and devotion, to grant him of your wisdom and truth, to share in his happiness and his sorrows, until death parts you?”
The silence in the chapel was so complete Callan imagined he could hear the wind blowing high above the chapel’s domed rooftop.
“I do,” Derek said. His lashes tipped downward as he dropped his gaze.
The corner of Callan’s mouth curved in a sneer. The man was sickeningly meek. He had been right not to ask Derek to join him on his mission to the north despite the explicit command from his father (whose displeasure he’d have to deal with later). Perhaps he should have lied about being the one to have killed his father, just to see how Derek would have reacted. No doubt he’d simply let it stand, though, swallow his pride as he’d done with everything else. Callan was surprised he’d had enough audacity to ask the question in the first place. That one, but not all the others undoubtedly weighing on his mind. Most likely, Derek didn’t want to risk doing anything that would jeopardize the alliance he’d paid for with his dignity.
But Callan hadn’t been any different, had he? He was doing the same thing, taking the same damn oaths. He couldn’t fault Derek for actively upholding the interests of his fiefdom, when Callan was simply doing what he was told, without having much say in the matter.
Nehewia turned to him, asking him the same question. He stared at her familiar features, her kind eyes lined with age and knowledge, and for a moment felt as though he was suffocating, as though there wasn’t enough air in the world to help him utter the words that were expected of him. The priestesses cocked her head in concern.
“I do,” Callan said thickly. He felt Derek’s eyes on him but refused to meet his gaze.
“A word spoken cannot be undone,” Nehewia intoned. Derek’s brothers shifted, exchanging a glance, but said nothing.
The priestess stepped in front of them, placing a hand on each of their heads.
“By the grace of the gods, you are now joined. May the cup of your blessing always be full.”
On this cue, Callan and Derek turned to face each other, and in turn, brought their goblet to the other man’s lips. The wine tasted bitter, even though it was the finest vintage from the duke’s cellars. Then they leaned toward one another, their lips touching in the most perfunctory of kisses.
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause as they rose to their feet. But they’d been kneeling for a long time, and the stiffness must have affected Derek. With one of his hands in a sling and the other occupied, he lost his balance for a second, and the wine sloshed over the rim of his goblet, splashing on the white floor.
There were gasps and murmurs among the guests at this sign of bad luck, an ill portent for the start of a marriage. The priestess’s attendants made discreet gestures to ward off evil behind Derek’s back.
The young count stared at the stain slowly spreading on the floor like a blood-spill. His cheeks burned with a matching shade of crimson.
Callan took the goblet out of his hand and thrust it at the attendant, who hurried to take away the wine in order to pass it to the guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that many refused to touch Derek’s cup.
“Come on,” Callan said gruffly, offering his arm to his husband. Like him or not, he hated to see him humiliated for a simple slipup. If their marriage were to be a disaster, it certainly wouldn’t be because of some spilled wine.
“Thanks,” Derek said, his voice barely audible above the general din. He leaned on Callan’s arm, and the crowd parted before them as they exited the chapel, heading to the feast prepared in the main hall.
ADELE’S VIOLIN PERFORMANCE of Ballad of the Lovers was lovely, but other than that, Callan couldn’t precisely recall what dishes were served and what music was playing. He ate little, despite the lavishness of the feast Medwin had managed to put together. All around them people were laughing, talking, drinking, and the revelry was undoubtedly echoed all through th
e city in celebration of the duke heir’s nuptials. The members of Callan’s personal guard, those who were set to leave with him in the morning, were doing their damnedest to have a good time. Callan raised an incredulous eyebrow when he caught sight of Leandre dancing with a woman from Derek’s retinue, both laughing as they whirled.
Even Ivo was dancing, though Derek’s younger brother, Macon, didn’t move from his place at the table, drinking himself into a wretched state. A part of Callan dearly wished he could follow his suit, but another part wondered why neither Derek nor someone of his entourage did anything to keep the boy in check. It rather figured the young Count of Camria was so poor a leader he couldn’t control his own siblings enough to demand they behave with any semblance of civility.
But as Callan intermittently sought distraction in others’ joy and in his own annoyance, his attention and his thoughts kept circling back to his groom. Derek seemed to share Callan’s mood because he barely touched the food on his plate and kept mostly quiet. Callan noted the tiny dots of purple on his white clothes where the wine drops had spattered. Had Derek taken the faux pas at the chapel so close to heart? The sadness in his eyes was unbecoming to their loveliness. Callan had to suppress the urge to comfort Derek by telling him it was nothing but silly superstition. He might have vowed to grant wisdom and truth to his new husband, but they were still barely more than strangers.
The dissonance between their gloom and the all-round merriment was so jarring that Callan was relieved when it was finally time for them to depart, followed by another round of cheers and well-wishing of varying degrees of bawdiness. He offered his arm once again to Derek, who accepted graciously, but when they were far enough from the main hall, and the noise of the party had dwindled to the barest of echoes, Derek let go of Callan and stepped away.
Well. That certainly sent a clear message. Which was just as well, since Callan was feeling anything but excited at the prospect of them sharing a bed on their wedding night. It had nothing to do with Derek himself; under different circumstances, in another life, Callan could well find himself attracted to the Camrian. His angry thoughts during the ceremony notwithstanding, he couldn’t shake the persistent suspicion that underneath the soft-spoken demeanor and quiet manner lay some hidden strength he was yet to discover. He saw glimpses of it—in the touch of gray that marred the wedding attire, in the way Derek didn’t avert his gaze when conversing with the duke during the feast, despite the intentional bluntness of his father’s questions.
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 4