The Women's War

by Jenna Glass

  Delnamal wasted far less of his food than Shelvon. Even he couldn’t eat everything that was served, but he made a heroic effort, digging into each delicacy with gusto. It seemed that the richer and more decadent the dish, the more he ate, and even with his corpulent frame, she wondered where it all went. She swore she could see him growing fatter as the meal progressed.

  She was used to being largely ignored during meals, both by her husband and by the rest of his courtiers. In the early days, people had tried desperately to draw her into polite conversation, and while she’d appreciated the kindness of their efforts, it was a relief when they’d finally given up. She’d been raised to be quiet unless spoken to, to be as unobtrusive as possible in any given situation, and those were lessons she had taken to heart and had so far been unable to abandon. Uncharacteristically, Delnamal had made a couple of attempts to include her in tonight’s conversation, asking her the occasional question that required only a brief answer. She would never have thought him capable of such a kindness, nor of having the sensitivity to include her without putting undue pressure on her to prove herself witty and interesting.

  It wasn’t until the feast was over and the ball had begun that her husband’s mood started to sour, and Shelvon knew exactly when the turning point occurred.

  There were more people at the ball than there had been at the feast, and an announcement was made when each new person entered the ballroom. The king sat on a thronelike chair on a dais, with the queen on his right and Delnamal and Shelvon on his left. After new guests were announced, they proceeded down the middle of the room to the dais to pay their respects to the royal family. The process was always tedious, and Delnamal was often bored and sleepy after a big meal. It was Shelvon’s job as his wife to keep a careful eye on him and make sure he did not embarrass himself by falling asleep.

  His head was nodding, and Shelvon was trying to work up the courage to put her hand on his arm to rouse him, when suddenly he jerked, his eyes popping open as he abruptly sat up straighter in his chair. Shelvon had been watching him so carefully she had paid no attention to the announcement of the latest guests, but when she followed Delnamal’s gaze, she knew immediately what had roused him.

  No one had ever come right out and told Shelvon that her husband was in love with Lady Oona Rah-Wylsem, but sometimes her natural reticence worked to her advantage and people almost forgot she was there. And so over the first few months of her marriage, Shelvon had pieced together what the court considered to be the romantically tragic love story of the crown prince and his childhood sweetheart.

  Lady Oona was a noblewoman of middling rank whose father had risen to prominence due to his military prowess in the last war between Aaltah and Rhozinolm—one which had gone so poorly for so long that Aaltah might well have fallen to its most-hated rival had not King Aaltyn married Xanvin and drawn Khalpar into an alliance powerful enough to bring King Linolm to the negotiating table.

  Lady Oona and Prince Delnamal had fallen madly in love with each other when they were teenagers, and both had naïvely assumed that one day they would grow up to marry. But while Lady Oona was of noble birth and her father was a noted hero, the family was not a particularly wealthy or prominent one, and there was no particular diplomatic advantage to a match between them.

  From what Shelvon had heard, Delnamal had done everything in his power to convince his father to allow him to marry Oona, and the king had shown signs that he might relent. Until Prince Waldmir had offered Shelvon with a healthy trade agreement as a dowry. It had been an offer King Aaltyn could ill afford to turn down with King Linolm still on the throne of Rhozinolm and bad blood continuing to run between them. The iron and gemstones that Nandel provided were vital to the production of weapons and magic that would make Aaltah an unappealing target for King Linolm’s ambitions.

  Shelvon could almost sympathize with her husband, for love denied was one of life’s greatest pains—or at least so she had been led to believe. Having never loved a man, nor having ever had much reason to believe such a love could be hers, she could hardly imagine what it must have felt like. She certainly understood why her husband despised her so much.

  Lady Oona was married herself now and was already a mother. But no one seeing the way Delnamal looked at her when she entered the room could doubt that he still loved her as fiercely as he ever had.

  Lady Oona and her husband approached the dais, giving the king their curtsy and bow. Oona was a delicate, raven-haired beauty with absurdly large eyes and lush, full lips. For tonight’s ball, she wore a deep blue silk skirt set off by a jeweled blue velvet bodice and long slit sleeves with billows of lace puffing out. The ensemble was unusual and stunning, and though the lady was hardly of a rank to steer fashion trends at court, Shelvon had no doubt that the next time there was a ball, there would be more than one lady in attendance with similarly slit sleeves.

  Oona’s and Delnamal’s eyes met for one highly charged second while Oona’s husband paid a compliment to the queen as if he didn’t notice. But Shelvon doubted there was a person in the room who didn’t catch the flash of longing and desire that sparked between the crown prince and the woman who could never be his. And when Oona and her husband ceded their place to the next couple who wished to pay their respects, Shelvon could already sense how the prince’s mood had changed.

  Shelvon wished with all her heart that her husband would simply take Lady Oona as his mistress and have done with it. How the woman could gaze upon Delnamal—with his doublet straining across his middle and his face set in a perpetually petulant expression—with such longing was a mystery, but she would clearly be happy to share his bed. Her skinny nobody of a husband was in no position to complain, and if Delnamal could actually have the woman he wanted in his bed, then perhaps tonight’s careful cordiality could become their normal life.

  But for all of Delnamal’s considerable faults, he had the one shining—and highly inconvenient—virtue: fidelity. Shelvon was certain she had Queen Xanvin to thank for her husband’s unusual devotion. The woman had failed to make her son pious, and yet she had nevertheless convinced him that the vows of matrimony were to be obeyed. Shelvon doubted those vows had so much weight even in the queen’s homeland, and yet her son stubbornly clung to them. If she’d had the courage to speak of such things, Shelvon would have encouraged her husband to act on his desires with her blessing.

  Shelvon was not surprised when Delnamal abruptly left the ball before it was even half over. Nor was she surprised that he was waiting for her in her bedchamber when she entered hours later. He didn’t even give her ladies a chance to undress her before he ordered them out and pushed her to her hands and knees—a position that was torturous in her tightly laced bodice.

  It was her duty as his wife to provide him with pleasure, and so she offered no resistance and swallowed her complaints even as he tore her skirts and petticoats shoving them out of the way. Perhaps if she let him know he was hurting her, he would gentle, but she chose to hold her tongue out of a sense of duty—and a sense that it would be over faster this way.

  She cried quietly, her nose dripping, her bodice and stays squeezing her ribs so tight she could hardly breathe. She willed her husband’s seed to take root, willed her body to give him the heir he expected. But even as she told herself that was exactly what she wanted, her heart insisted on shriveling within her. She had learned from hard experience that her husband would not be any kinder to her if she quickened, and that he would not use her pregnancy as an excuse to finally take the woman he truly wanted. So what was the use?

  Shelvon had long ago lost any naïveté she had ever possessed. She knew that if she did not provide her husband with an heir, he would eventually set her aside and damn the consequences. She would live out the rest of her life in the Abbey, letting any man who bought her degrade and humiliate her at will.

  But as her husband grunted and spent himself inside her, hi
s every thrust fueled by anger and hatred, she wasn’t sure becoming an abigail would be any worse.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ellin’s throat ached with the pain of holding back tears as she sat rigidly straight in her carriage, eyes fixed ahead on the quartet of rose-covered biers, each drawn by a solid black cheval. The scent of the roses carried in the breeze, strong enough to make her eyes water without the additional weight of grief. The streets were lined with mourners, many of whom threw yet more roses into the midst of the procession. The day was sunny and temperate, not at all funereal weather, but the brisk breezes meant the thrown flowers frequently missed their intended targets. If it weren’t for the spells contained in Ellin’s carriage, she had no doubt she’d have been smacked in the face with a flower more than once.

  The procession finally reached the Temple of the Dead, situated on top of the highest hill in the city of Zinolm Well, Rhozinolm’s capital. The crowds led up to the base of the hill, where they were held back by a row of soldiers. Only the funeral procession itself was allowed onto the sacred ground. Knowing she would still require a great deal of strength and resolve to get through the rites to follow, Ellin nevertheless relaxed just a little when the crowd dropped away behind her.

  Her throat tightened with renewed force when her carriage reached the top of the hill and she caught sight of the enormous funeral pyre that waited in the center of the open-air temple.

  The procession came to a halt, and the bodies were ceremoniously lifted one by one, bier and all, onto the wooden platform that would be their final resting place. Ellin waited in the carriage for one of her honor guardsmen to open the door for her and give her a hand down. But it was not an honor guardsman who opened her door and offered her a hand. It was Lord Tamzin.

  Both Lord Tamzin and Lord Kailindar had paid her formal visits when they’d arrived at court, and they’d all exchanged condolences over the deaths of their fathers. However, she had been so busy adjusting to her new life—which had so far included nothing that resembled social engagements—that she had had to spend little time in their company. Today, there would be no avoiding either of them.

  Knowing it was rude, she nonetheless hesitated for a beat before accepting the hand Tamzin offered. He was dressed all in black, as befitted a man in deep mourning, but he had an ostentatious streak he had never tried to tame. His doublet was studded with tiny black pearls that caught the sunlight, and the cloak that draped his shoulders was lined with glossy black fur that was far too warm for the temperate weather.

  Ellin herself had dressed in the strictest mourning, her black gown and headdress unadorned with lace or jewels or even embroidery. Fitting funeral attire for a queen, although the elegance of Tamzin’s outfit made her feel frumpy and common. She assured herself that she had looked by far the more dignified and appropriately dressed during the procession, but Tamzin’s understated splendor had no doubt drawn many an admiring eye.

  She intended to offer her cousin a polite thank-you before moving off without him, but as soon as her feet hit the ground, he put her hand through his elbow as if she could not possibly have any objection to walking arm in arm with him. She gritted her teeth. There was no love lost between them, but it was not worth making a scene at a funeral to refuse his overly friendly—and no doubt purposeful—gesture. With the death of her father, one of the most pressing duties as sovereign was to name the next lord chamberlain, who was the second-ranking member of the royal council, after the lord chancellor. Tradition held that the lord chamberlain should be a member of the royal family, and she had little doubt that both Tamzin and Kailindar wanted the position. She was tense and ready for Tamzin to begin stating his case at this most inappropriate time.

  When they arrived at the semicircle of seats before the pyre, Tamzin released her hand and bowed. She regarded him with deep suspicion, but there was no cause to quarrel with anything he had done. She only hoped that her expectation of ulterior motives would prove false.

  He waited until she was seated, hovering over her solicitously, then took the seat beside her without awaiting an invitation. She seriously considered objecting to his presumption at sitting next to the queen as if he had some natural born right to it. Only immediate family could legitimately take such a liberty. But with a renewed stab of grief, she remembered that she had no immediate family left, and that Tamzin had more right to that seat than anyone else in attendance.

  Lord Kailindar approached the seat on her other side, but he, at least, had the courtesy to wait for an invitation before sitting. She was very much aware of the clash of male egos as her uncle and her cousin glared at each other over her head. She wanted to remind them that they were here to honor their fallen fathers, not to make a public spectacle of their hardly secret enmity.

  Ellin took a slow, deep breath in an attempt to soothe her nerves, but the stink of the roses made her sneeze. Both Kailindar and Tamzin offered her a handkerchief, silently vying with each other for the great honor of helping her wipe her nose. Since she was well prepared for tears, she already had a handkerchief of her own tucked discreetly up her sleeve, and so she ignored both offers.

  The rows of seats quickly filled, the gathering solemn and nearly silent as the nobility of Rhozinolm continued to grapple with the terrible reality of having lost so many members of the royal family in so short a time. Ellin had been to funerals before, even a royal one with the passing of her grandmother, but never had the silence been so oppressive or the grief so real.

  The priests spoke for what felt like an eternity, their words barely penetrating the fog that drifted over Ellin’s mind. She could not stop staring at the body of her father, lying so still and pale amidst the red and white roses. Had he lived, she might never have forgiven him for the marriage he had planned to force on her, but she realized, now that it was too late, that she would rather have married Zarsha ten times over than have lost her father.

  Finally, the interminable ceremony was over, and it was time for Ellin to do what she had been dreading all day. One of the priests picked up a torch and came to kneel on the floor before Ellin’s feet. It was the sovereign’s duty and honor to light the funeral pyre, but when the priest knelt, Ellin couldn’t force herself to reach out and take the torch from his hand. Her own hands clenched together in her lap, and her vision blurred with tears. She had the unhappy suspicion that her lower lip might be quivering like that of a very young child.

  Beside her, Lord Tamzin leaned closer, dropping his voice to something just above a whisper. Ellin might have thought he was attempting to be discreet, except the gathering was so silent that there was no chance of anyone speaking softly enough not to be heard by those nearby.

  “Perhaps it would be best to allow me to take this burden from you,” Tamzin said.

  Ellin swallowed the hard lump in her throat and blinked her eyes rapidly to clear the glaze of tears. Tamzin made it sound as if he was offering a kindness, but she didn’t for a moment believe he was trying to spare her the pain and burden of lighting the funeral pyre—he was trying to make her appear weak in front of every person of consequence in Rhozinolm. And cast himself as the gallant gentleman who came to her aid. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kailindar stiffen beside her. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one to sense that particular undercurrent. She also wondered if Tamzin thought she was fooled.

  “Thank you for your most generous offer, Lord Tamzin,” she said, finding the anger was doing an admirable job of chasing away the paralysis of grief. “But the burdens of this duty are mine and mine alone, and I am never one to shirk my duties.”

  She took the torch from the priest, pleased to see her hand did not shake.

  “I’m sure no one here would feel you were shirking your duties if you allowed another to light the pyre,” Tamzin pressed. His face and voice were full of gentle concern, and judging by past history, the majority of those seeing this exchange would bel
ieve he was genuinely trying to be helpful and supportive.

  Ellin locked eyes with her cousin as she gripped the torch. Was she being unjust in thinking she’d heard a subtle threat underlying his words? Those dark, hooded eyes of his bored into her, and she didn’t think the hunger she saw there was her imagination. Whether he saw in her his key to the power of the lord chamberlain’s office or an impediment to his own ambitions for the throne was yet to be seen. Either way, she had no intention of giving him any reason to think she was weak or vulnerable.

  “I appreciate and will fondly remember your kind offer,” she said as she rose to her feet. The dread and the grief that had filled her when the priest had first offered the torch faded to the background, and though she still felt them, both her hands and her legs were firm and steady. “But only the rightful sovereign can light the pyre, and so I must once again refuse.”

  There was a hint of dark amusement in his eyes as he nodded his head respectfully. To her, their bout of verbal sparring seemed a matter of life or death; to Tamzin, it was nothing but a source of amusement, or at least that was what his now relaxed manner suggested. But she would not soon forget that spark of hunger in his eyes, nor could she doubt that they’d been speaking of something other than the lighting of the funeral pyre.

  Swallowing hard and holding her chin up high, Ellin stepped to the pyre. Her eyes swept one more time over the family who had once held so prominent a place in her life. She braced against a renewed swell of grief, but she felt next to nothing, her emotions suddenly walled off and inaccessible. She thrust her torch into the pyre and watched it catch instantly. She had never asked, but she suspected the torch was a magic item, spelled to spare her any potential difficulty in getting the fire quickly lit.