KING AND PRINCE AND FUTURE QUEEN

Laren followed Colin and upon entering the tent, stared in wonder. It was as though they entered a forest glade. Great white-skinned birches with golden leaves arched above them, supporting the canopy, and the space felt too vast for the confines of a tent. The trees were lined up in rows like a great hall of living boughs. Tall, emerald grasses wavered as if touched by open air, and before them, the stream that passed by the city gate gurgled through the tent-glade.

The tent walls rustled, their coloring that of the sky, and the more Laren gazed, the more the walls and ceiling lost definition and did become open air, as though the king and his companions had not stepped into a tent at all, but were somehow transported to another place where it was still warm, still spring, or at least the warmer days of autumn extended.

A narrow path lay before them, winding away through the grasses and beneath the boughs of the birches.

“Be welcome,” their guide said, “and follow.”

Laren glanced at her companions and saw their expressions of surprise and awe, even on the face of the Weapon, Fastion. Her own must look much the same.

“I presume you are taking us to see someone in authority,” Zachary said, “but to whom? I should like to know before we are presented.”

The Eletian woman paused, the white feathers bound in her hair drifting about her head. Laren thought she detected surprise, as though the Eletian expected complete compliance from her guests and no questions whatsoever.

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “You will meet one among us that your folk would call a prince. We name him Ari-matiel, for he is Jametari, our northern star, Santanara’s son, and my brother.”

Laren exchanged a significant glance with Zachary.

“Perhaps you have heard his name before,” the Eletian said.

“Yes,” Laren replied. “He held one of my Riders prisoner.”

Now the Eletian looked annoyed, though she tried to conceal it. “The Galadheon. She was no prisoner.”

“That’s not the way it sounded to me,” Laren said.

General Harborough flicked his gaze from the Eletian to Laren. “I thought you said these people were to be trusted.”

“I never said that,” Laren replied. “I believed, however, and still do, that they would not dare harm us.”

“We intend you no harm,” the Eletian said, “nor did we come so far to quarrel over an insignificant encounter of this summer.”

Before Laren could protest, Zachary said, “To you, perhaps, it was insignificant. To us, it was not, and you would do well to remember that in dealings with my people. But we agree we did not come here to quarrel. Please lead on.”

The Eletian hesitated, a look of displeasure on her face, but said no more. She turned and guided them into the verdant depths of the tent. Laren took a deep breath, thinking that Karigan’s description of some Eletians and their haughtiness was not far off the mark.

They followed the meandering path through the birch grove, crossing the stream using strategically-placed stones that did not wobble when stepped on. The path wound on longer than seemed possible, as if the tent had no end, but Laren could not swear they were still in a tent.

“How can this be?” General Harborough murmured, glancing up at the roof of entwined tree boughs.

Laren did not provide an answer, for she had none, though she did know that to Eletians, magic was second nature, or rather it was their nature, and perhaps this tentless tent was an expression of it. Without magic, the Eletians would fade from the world. This was one of the bits of information Karigan had gleaned from her “insignificant encounter” with Prince Jametari this past summer.

Laren glanced at her other companions. Zachary looked intrigued, and maybe even delighted, by his surroundings, and she saw no fear in him. Lord Coutre was grim with his heavy white brows drawn over dark eyes. If Laren could judge his thoughts, it was that he refused to be deceived by the Eletians. He was as suspicious of their motives as General Harborough.

Colin’s expression was neutral, though his gaze darted about as if expecting some assailant to leap out from behind trees. His years as a Weapon made such habits die hard. Fastion’s demeanor was much the same—edgy and alert.

Eventually they halted before a group of Eletians standing within a semicircle of birches, and here the stream trickled again into the tent—or wherever they were, and beyond the birches and out of their ken.

The Eletians were simply clothed in the hues of nature, and none wore weapons or armor. Laren did not doubt that despite the seeming lack of armament, the king’s group was keenly watched by those who would defend their prince. But if there were watchers, they were well concealed.

One very like their guide in stature and coloring stepped forward, and this Laren took to be the prince, brother to their guide. He wore startling white, a long over-tunic belted with silver and green gems, and embroidered white on white with a leaf design. He wore loose white trousers long enough to partly cover his sandaled feet.

“Welcome,” he told them. “I am Jametari.”

Zachary stepped forward, his posture erect, and held out his hand in greeting, which Jametari clasped. “You and your people are welcome in Sacoridia.” General Harborough did not appear pleased by his words.

Jametari nodded graciously, then to his servants he said, “Seating for our guests.”

The Eletians brought each of the king’s company chairs made of woven tree boughs. Laren didn’t think they could possibly be comfortable, but to her surprise, hers was. The only one who refused a chair was Fastion, who stood in a watchful attitude behind the king.

Jametari sat facing them while the other Eletians receded into the shadows of the trees. Refreshments were brought forth, drinks and golden cakes that melted like honey and cream on the tongue. The drink was clear and cold with the distant tang of dew-laden berries. It refreshed Laren, lifted her cares and awakened her. She felt it to the roots of her hair, and all the aches and pains that had bothered her throughout the day subsided. Whatever the drink was, it was more efficacious than willowbark tea. If she had a chance, she would find out what it was.

Zachary and Jametari made light talk over their refreshments, sizing up one another. Zachary was asking their host about his travels.

“We followed ancient paths,” Jametari said. “Paths long ago frequently traveled by my folk as they journeyed across the lands. Time has changed the landscape, but the paths recall us.”

Any other time, and uttered by anyone else, such a statement would sound absurd.

“And many years,” he continued, “has it been since last my folk came willingly among the Sacoridum. Once we dwelled in all these lands before the coming of men. Alas, it is a time even before my reckoning, but ever smaller has our territory grown as a result.”

“I hope you have not come all this way,” Zachary said, “to seek recompense for wrongs committed generations upon generations ago by forgotten ancestors.”

“No, we have not, though there are Eletians who have not forgotten.”

His words hung there between them, between mortals whose time on Earth was but the blinking of an eye and those who lived eternal lives.

“We also do not forget the alliance of men and Eletians during the Cataclysm,” Jametari said, and then glancing at Laren, he added, “and it seems you have not either, for the banner of the Green Riders you bear was woven by the hands of Eletians and presented to Liliedhe Ambriodhe on the eve of the decisive battle. It is threaded with words of justice and victory, and of friendship between our peoples. In common purpose, our peoples defeated darkness and unjust conquest.”

“We do not forget,” Zachary said, “especially in these days when darkness has returned.”

“And it has returned, though Kanmorhan Vane sleeps for the moment,” Jametari said, using the Eletian name for Blackveil Forest. “When it awakens again, it will be with vengeance at its heart. I fear the D’Yer Wall will not hold against the onslaught.”

Zachary shifted in his chair. “The old ways of making the wall strong are lost, but we are attempting to relearn them.”

“There may not be the time.”

“We do not know how much time we have.”

The golden leaves stirred above and the boughs of the birches creaked. Laren thought she saw a ripple in the tent-sky. The stream gurgled unabated and it felt like ages passed. Zachary and Jametari regarded one another like lords carved in stone carrying on some mental conversation.

“You sent a delegation northward,” Jametari said, “to seek us out, to know our mind, to find out if the old alliance still holds true. That delegation failed, ambushed during its journey. And now I have come forth in turn, to take the measure of this king and his people, to see for myself the strength or lack of foundation for an alliance.”

“If you are an enemy of the darkness to the south,” Zachary said, “then I would say a rekindling of the alliance sounds promising.”

“Mornhavon is our mutual enemy. His conquering of Argenthyne and the depredations committed against our people are evils that shall never be forgotten. Now that the wall is failing and Mornhavon awakened from his banishment, I must decide what is the best course for my people.”

Laren noticed he completely circumvented a commitment to an alliance. To take the measure of king and country? What would it mean if he did not care for what he saw and refused to reestablish the alliance? Then she remembered Karigan telling her there were factions of Eletians who wanted to see the wall fail and release all the wild magic pent up in Blackveil, whether or not it was tainted by Mornhavon. Some Eletians felt it would return raw magic to the world.

Laren could only shake her head in wonder that they would turn their backs on an entire people in that way and wish them ill. It was no better than the conquest of Mornhavon the Black. How prevalent was that feeling among the Eletians? How deep did their bitterness delve? They had all of eternity for it to stew.

Zachary laughed. Everyone, both Sacoridians and Eletians alike, stared at him in astonishment.

“And so you will judge our worthiness,” he said. “My worthiness in my own realm. Or perhaps you wish to delay, for the politics of your court are attempting to sway you one way or another. Trees will bend to and fro,” and he gestured at the birches, “but in a storm, they can snap.”

He stood then, tall and regal, and Laren and the other Sacoridians stood in unison in his wake. “Judge us as you will, prince of Eletia, but I’ve no time to play your games. The time to act is now, and we have been acting. Not spying, not playing games, not waiting. While you may be content for the tide to rise to crisis point, I am not. Whether you are with us or against us, we of Sacoridia will forge ahead as we always have. But know this, if in your self-interest you choose to do nothing at all, then you are against us, and we shall consider you our enemy in league with the powers of Blackveil.”

Stunned silence met the king’s speech, but he did not wait for a reaction. “I will take leave of you now.” He nodded toward Jametari, and without pausing or waiting for an escort, he turned on his heel and headed back through the grove. His companions followed, and Laren brought up the rear. Glancing back at the prince and his people, she found they remained unmoved, still in shock.

Estora flew from the chamber and slammed the door shut behind her before any of her cousins, aunts, sisters, ladies, or more important, her mother, could protest or follow her out. She glanced about the corridor only to discover one surprised servant who curtsied and scurried away. She even managed to leave her Weapon behind and, to her dismay, close a swath of her skirts in the door.

She cracked the door open and yanked them out. A deafening chatter poured from the room; the women oohing and aahing over materials merchants had brought up from the city and designs for the wedding gown drawn by tailors. A baker had brought samples of cake and other dainties, and vintners bottles of their best wines. The ladies, it seemed, had tested enough of the wines to not even note her departure, or care, and the volume of their voices rose to fevered pitches as swatches of cloth and frills flew through the air. She saw her poor Weapon attempting to make his way across the room through the melee, his expression grimmer than usual, especially when some lace was flung into his face.

Estora closed the door again, shutting away the clamor. If they enjoyed all the wedding planning on her behalf, she would leave them to it. If they made any decisions that displeased her, she could simply command that changes be made and no one would dare question her. She was to be queen, after all, wasn’t she? She could request what she wanted, and when she wanted it.

She daydreamed that on the eve of the wedding she decided she didn’t like the gown and demanded it be remade. The tailor would have no choice but to comply. It could mean his head! Not that Zachary would allow such a punishment, of course, and not that she would actually consider it, but she was only now beginning to recognize the power she was marrying into; the power she could wield over others.

She emitted a tiny little hiccup and covered her mouth and blushed though no one was there to witness it.

I’ve had a little too much wine as well.

She quelled an abrupt giggle and fled down the corridor, barely noticing that her Weapon, looking uncharacteristically harried, emerged from the chamber and followed her.

Estora stepped out into the central courtyard gardens, breathing free at last. The chamber, her mother’s parlor while in residence, had been crammed with so many bodies that the air was stuffy and stale. This was much more the thing, this clean autumn air. It was sobering.

She walked the gravel pathway, drawing her shawl about her shoulders. The mist that permeated everything had subsided, but the sky was still heavy and the air smelled of wet earth and moldering leaves. The garden had gone to dull yellows and browns, the flower beds already mulched against frost and the coming winter. It was a sparse scene, with only a few of the trees holding onto their leaves.

If Estora thought things unbearable now, winter would only be worse, cooped up in the castle with all her relatives and nowhere to escape. The gardens would be snowy, icy, cold. She shivered at the mere thought. Spring would prove no better, for then would be the wedding.

It didn’t help that Zachary did not have a moment to spare for her. She knew the realm must come first, but why couldn’t he even involve her in the business of its running? If she was to be queen, she must learn all she could about it. If he didn’t have time for her as his betrothed, he should at least spare time for the one with whom he’d be sharing power. She refused to ascend the throne simply to be his brood mare, and if that was all he expected of her, then he was in for a surprise.

The arrival of the Eletians sparked her discontent. The castle, of course, was full of gossip about the mysterious folk and what their visit portended, and she, like everyone else, wanted to see firsthand their encampment, at the very least. Instead, she had to rely on secondhand descriptions of the tents, for both the king and her father had forbidden her to leave the castle grounds. Forbidden her! Was she to be queen, or a prisoner? If the latter, she might as well throw herself off the castle’s highest tower at once.

She pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. It was not fair. It was not fair that she have no choice in this marriage, and it was not fair that she be excluded from the business of the country she was to help lead. Her father and Zachary treated her as though she were some fine porcelain vase that would crack and break if someone even glanced inappropriately at her.

If only they knew the truth! The truth of her relationship with F’ryan. She felt faint at the very thought of its exposure, for her father’s response would be swift, extreme, and devastating. He’d consider her ruined, and cast her from the clan forever, never permitting her near family members again.

Zachary’s reaction? That was more difficult to divine, for he was in many ways a mystery to her. How strictly did he judge transgressions of the heart?

She slowed her walk, considering. So far she hadn’t given anyone any reason to doubt her virtue. Only the Green Riders knew about her and F’ryan, and they were bound by honor to keep her secret. None of them wanted to see her disowned by her clan, and by safeguarding her reputation, the Riders also honored F’ryan, and his wish that they look out for her.

For this Estora was thankful beyond measure, but she also knew the Riders were oathbound servants of the king. In light of the betrothal, how could they continue to withhold the secret from him?

“And for how long?” she murmured. Long enough that he did not discover the truth till their wedding night?

She paused and picked up a perfect crimson maple leaf from the pathway and twirled it between her fingers. In court, chaste behavior was expected, but what actually happened was another thing. Estora knew of young noble ladies who carried on secret affairs, though it was difficult to say for certain which of these liasons were actually consummated. Much of it appeared innocent: gifts hidden in niches, soulful poetry read through open windows, romantic strolls through the garden, stolen kisses, all accompanied by an ample amount of swooning and dreamy looks.

It was all a result, she believed, of young people who would soon be faced with arranged marriages, often to total strangers. They saw only a lifetime barren of love ahead of them, a marriage made for alliance and bloodline, not for personal happiness. It pushed forbidden romances to be all the more fiery, passionate. And heartrending. Sometimes driving them to their apex.

Periodically a young woman would be “sent away” from court by her parents for one purpose or another, but everyone knew the real reason. Either it was to separate her from an unsuitable paramour, or, if the young lady in question was not careful enough, to conceal her gravid condition. A family of status, especially a noble family, would not wish their good name besmirched by such a disgrace.

How was it for the others, Estora wondered, bending her leaf between her fingers. How was it for those who weren’t so obviously compromised? What did they say and do on their wedding night when their maiden’s blood, the mark of their chastity, did not flow?

There were ways to explain it, of course. Some girls “damaged” themselves just horseback riding, but she doubted such claims salved the temper of new husbands expecting virginal wives. Some young ladies might stain the bridal bed with pig’s blood to trick their husbands, but most men, she believed, were not stupid enough to fall for it.

What would she do?

There was, she supposed, the truth. But just how did one go about telling her intended, who also happened to be the king, that she had been with another man? And what would he do when he knew the truth?

After all, in the end, her fate was in Zachary’s hands.

Perhaps he’d be understanding. She did not think he lived the life of a celibate himself, but it was different for men. More acceptable for them, especially men of power, to engage in liasons as they wished. In contrast, if Zachary did not take the truth well, it could destroy her. She would never escape the shame.

Thought of the repercussions dizzied her, made her want to hide in a dark cave somewhere far away, but she could not deny her love for F’ryan, and she would not change it, or the past, for all the world. Soon, however, she would have to find a way to address it with her husband-to-be, and pray his outrage would not lead to her becoming a pariah to her own clan and in turn ruin the peace between the eastern provinces and the west. She would pray, and pray fervently, for strength and courage.

At the sound of footsteps upon the gravel path, she turned to find Lord Amberhill strolling leisurely toward her.

“Good day, my lady,” he said with a half bow.

She nodded, trying not to show her surprise. “Good day to you.”

“May I offer you my coat?” he inquired. “You look chilled.”

“Thank you, no. I’m fine.” An awkward moment passed and Estora felt a blush creeping up her neck.

Amberhill bowed his head to her again, a lock of raven hair straying from his pony tail to hang over his temple. “Forgive me for my intrusion then, my lady.” And he turned to leave.

Estora took a step after him. “Wait.”

He paused and faced her. “Yes?”

Estora wasn’t quite sure what impulse drove her to stop him. Discomfited, it took her a breath or two to respond. “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced.”

“It is true, but I would not pretend to be worthy of your attention.”

Estora almost laughed. The words were pretty enough, but she did not believe him so modest, and they exchanged enough covert looks at the Huradeshian reception to dispute his words.

“I expect to know all those who are of blood relation to my future husband.”

Amberhill quirked an eyebrow. “Then I am not completely unknown to you.”

“Hardly an introduction.”

“Then allow me to remedy that.” He put his hand to temple and bent into a deep, supple bow, the velvet of his dark blue frock coat rippling across his shoulders. The coat was in good condition, she noted, but of a style from her grandfather’s generation, with its puffed sleeves. His linen shirt was yellowed and frayed at the collar.

“I am Xandis Pierce Amberhill. The third. And your servant.” When he rose, he stood erect and proud, and gazed at her as if daring her to dispute his lineage.

“And cousin to the king,” she added.

“Somewhat removed.”

Estora thought it interesting he’d admit such to her. Most would try to emphasize the closeness of the relationship rather than its distance. Since the announcement of her wedding contract, she was sprouting distant relations she never knew existed.

Amberhill gazed into the distance as if in deep thought before returning his attention to her. “I am of Clan Hillander, and my lands, what are left of them, are in the middle of the province.”

Her cousin, Richmont Spane, had indicated Amberhill was an impoverished landowner, but she did not pry.

“And what brings you to Sacor City?” she inquired.

“Why news of my cousin’s betrothal,” he said with a grin. “And other business.”

Estora hadn’t noticed when they began strolling, but stroll they did along the garden paths. She supposed others would view this as indecent, that she, future wife to the king, was strolling unchaperoned with another man—unless one counted her Weapon, and most did not.

With her thoughts of F’ryan and her sullied circumstances still fresh in her mind, she found herself tired, wrung out by such worries. She dropped her maple leaf, watched it whirl to the ground, staining the earth blood-red.

“Have you been down to see the Eletians?” Amberhill inquired.

“No.”

Her answer must have sounded vehement enough that he gave her a startled look.

“They won’t let me,” she added.

“They?”

“My father and the king.”

“Oh, I see. For your protection.”

Estora wanted to scream, but she retained her composure and her calm facade. “So they say.”

“Well, one knows so little of these Eletians and the dangers they pose,” Amberhill said, “and you are worth protecting.” Then he paused in the walkway. “The poets have spoken of you and the minstrels sung.”

“I am afraid they have created words about an ideal that does not exist.”

“I see no flaws.”

“I am but an ordinary woman.”

“A woman, yes,” he said. “I had noticed that. But ordinary? I think not.”

Estora should have blushed, but she could only sigh. She had heard it all before, all the flattery from so many men. Only F’ryan ever reached her with his words.

He gazed boldly at her. She had seen the hunger on the faces of men before, from the promise of power a marriage alliance would secure, or raw lust for her body. Amberhill carried something altogether different in his demeanor. Yes, the desire was there, but allied with a cocky self-confidence and a residue of…of mockery?

He chuckled and shook his head. “You take yourself much too seriously, my lady.”

Estora’s mouth dropped open and she did not know what to say.

“I must be off,” Amberhill said with surprising brusqueness. He gave her one of his graceful bows. “It’s been an honor.” He strode off and she could only watch him go, his gait fluid like a cat’s, sleek, belying tautly corded muscles ready to pounce.

How dare he? she fumed. And when she realized how much she was admiring the view of him from behind, she turned away, her cheeks warming.

To accuse her of taking herself too seriously and then run off? How dare he?

Coward.

She set off along the garden path at a furious rate not caring where her feet led her. Why did she allow him to prickle her so badly? She paused and took some breaths, willing calm to blanket her. He had been playing with her. And perhaps he prickled her because he was right: she took herself too seriously.

She started along the path again, but at a more sedate pace. There was no other way to be. Only F’ryan had lifted her cool introspection from her. He made her laugh like a girl; his lovemaking took her to the core of her being, made her real. He unlocked her true self.

She had been drawn to F’ryan by his roguish charm, his reckless humor, and his bald honesty. With a start, she realized that Xandis Pierce Amberhill exhibited something of F’ryan’s roguish nature, and he had been nothing if not honest.