RITUAL AND WAKENING
Naturally the five witnesses, including Richmont,
were all men, if she judged their stature and builds correctly
beneath their hoods and cloaks. They seated themselves in a row of
chairs at the foot of the bed.
Zachary lay unaware
of all that went on around him.
“How is he?” she
asked Destarion.
“About the same,
which is really more hopeful than it sounds. He has not declined,
and if his wound remains clean and continues to heal, we may see
more improvement before long. I think it’s the poison that has held
him back more than anything. It was not a large dose he received,
but harmful all the same.”
Estora nodded.
“Thank you.”
Destarion then
stepped closer and lowered his voice. “My lady, your presence with
him here tonight may provide him comfort. If he reacts, do not be
afraid to fulfill his needs. I’ve not given him his soporific this
evening. In fact, I’ve given him a slight stimulant of a sort that
may make him . . . more responsive. I could not say, however, when
or if the stimulant will make him more wakeful.” With that,
Destarion bowed and excused himself from her presence.
The Weapon, Ellen,
then came to her and said, “I will be posted right outside the
door, my lady. If you should need anything at all, just call
me.”
“Thank you,” Estora
replied. Ellen bowed again and left her. If only, Estora thought,
she could follow her out. Instead, the witnesses watched her and
her maid waited expectantly. Estora squinted at one of the men in
the middle whom she thought might be the priest who conducted the
marriage ceremony. The moon priests were celibates, but probably
took their opportunity to get an eyeful when they
could.
Her maid helped her
remove the robe, and then as the rite required, her sleeping gown
and underclothing. She might have rushed to get beneath the
blankets to conceal her nakedness as a modest young woman should,
but she was angry. Angered by Richmont’s threats, angered by this
crass tradition. Instead of hiding, she faced them and allowed them
all a slow, good look.
“This is what you’re
here for, isn’t it?” she asked them. “To see your queen at her most
vulnerable? Do you like what you see?”
“My lady, please . .
.” Definitely the priest. He glanced away, but not for
long.
She had, she
decided, nothing to be ashamed of. She knew many men coveted her
body. These five must feel very privileged. Would they brag to
their friends? Fellow priests? Even embellish what they saw? Let
them look. F’ryan had thought her body beautiful, and it made her
feel powerful to force them to stare.
It was, however,
also very chilly. After she felt they had gotten enough of a look,
she climbed up into the bed next to Zachary, her maid helping her
arrange the blankets. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, my
lady.”
“Thank you,
Jaid.”
Jaid curtsied,
dimmed the bedside lamp to a low glow, and then left, bearing away
Estora’s clothes. Part of the rite was to prevent her access to her
clothing so she could not, ostensibly, leave the
bedchamber.
Richmont stood and
rounded the bed, and brought to her a cup of wine. “Your marriage
bed cup,” he said. “Drink up.”
She took it from him
with a scowl. Another part of the ritual. Very often the wine was
laced with an aphrodisiac or an herb to promote fertility. She
supposed Zachary had gotten his ritual wine as medicine. She sighed
and drank. If the wine was dosed, it was very subtle. Richmont
stood over her until she drained the cup and he took it from her
when she finished.
She sank into the
mattress and gazed into the dark ceiling overhead. At least with
the light so dim, if there was anything for the witnesses to see,
they’d be able to make out few of the fine details. In time her
body began to feel very relaxed, relaxed and yet aware of every
texture against her skin, of how the movement of the sheets sent
vibrations to her very nerve ends. Her body thrilled to the
sensations and she wondered how it would respond to Zachary’s
touch. Yes, the wine had been dosed.
Zachary remained a
warm, unmoving presence beside her. She reached out and brushed his
arm with her fingertips and that simple contact sent such waves of
pleasure flooding through her that she almost cried out. After
that, she refrained from touching him. She would not allow herself
to get overwrought for the benefit of the watchers, and so far
Zachary was showing no signs of being able to reciprocate. She
remained still and hoped to sleep, but the circumstances made it
difficult, and the revelations about her cousin battered her
mind.
Eventually she did
doze off, dreaming something of her father standing at a ship rail
trying to peer through a fog bank.
“Arrows,” he
said.
Yes, an arrow had
killed him. She surfaced to wakefulness with tears burning her
cheeks, at first disoriented. She was not in her old bed, nor was
she in her new bed in the queen’s chamber. She blinked through the
darkness to where the watchers should be sitting, but she could not
make out their figures in the dim light. She hadn’t a clue to the
hour, but they must have grown tired of watching two people sleep
and left for their own beds.
“Arrows,” Zachary
muttered.
Startled, Estora
turned to face him. It must have been he who had awakened her. His
eyes were open, aware. “Zachary?” she whispered. She caressed his
warm, damp cheek, each contact with his skin sending tingles
through her body. Whatever they’d dosed her with had not yet worn
off.
“Arrows,” he said
again, looking at her.
She should call to
Ellen to summon Master Destarion, but Destarion said Zachary might
awaken, that it would be all right.
Instead, she said,
“Yes, it was an arrow that wounded you.”
The muscle in his
cheek ticked. “No . . . battle. The arrows . . .” He gazed at her
and the dim light shone in his fever-bright eyes.
“What battle,
Zachary?”
“I . . . I don’t
know. Has it happened?”
“There has been no
battle.”
He started to sit
up, but she feared he’d try to leave the bed and stand and she
thought he would be too weak to bear it. She pressed his shoulder
so he would sink back into his pillows. He relaxed, but she found
she could not, that she did not wish to remove her hand from his
shoulder, but instead trailed it along his powerful chest, over the
contours of his stomach, his muscles quivering in reaction to her
touch. Each variation of texture, each hollow and rise that was the
landscape of his body, quickened desire through her.
When he responded,
he touched her in kind, the agony of need rolling over her like a
molten wave. She could feel it taking him, too.
“Do you love me?” he
breathed into her ear.
Stunned, it took her
moment to respond. “Yes. I believe I do. Yes.”
He levered himself
above her. “Good. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
The velvet brush of
Zachary’s lips against her throat made Estora think that she was
the delirious one, but the touches and sensations were real,
present, and she became greedy, impatient, craving more, wanting it
all, and he showed her he was just as eager to provide what she
required, his mouth questing across her flesh, her breasts, to
secret places. She grew fierce in response, straddled him, wanton
and demanding, sheathing him in her with a cry of
triumph.
There was no
stopping the journey they were on, and despite injury and illness,
the strength was in him. He burned and drove hard. He was fire
against her skin.
As their pleasure
crested, however, even as she rode him into brilliance, the name
upon his lips was not her own.
When they parted she
lay again on her back breathing hard, staring into the dark, her
body thrumming, asking for more, part of her mind, however,
unnerved by the revelation of who it was Zachary truly
loved.
Finally, as the dark
of night dulled to the subtle gray of dawn, he lay slumped by her
side deeply exhausted, his arm draped across her belly. She kissed
his forehead but there was no response. She too, felt tired, but
sated. Every touch no longer incited flame, and she realized
whatever herb Destarion had used had worn off. It was time now for
rest.
Someone applauded.
Estora half sat up, heart thudding and suddenly fully awake. She
held the blanket to her breast. Zachary remained insensible beside
her.
“Who’s there?” she
demanded.
“I believe you can
guess,” Richmont replied, moving from the deepest corner of the
chamber to stand by her side of the bed. He plucked at her blanket.
“Why so modest now, my dear cousin? Your performance this night
shows otherwise.”
“I thought . .
.”
“We were all gone?
No, I alone remained as the sole witness. I was more patient than
the others, and it paid off. You were my good little cousin and
completed the rite. I enjoyed it very much.” He cupped her chin in
his hand. She slapped it away and he chuckled. “Still full of
feisty energy after all that. And you exhausted the king. The
parties concerned shall be pleased by tonight’s results. Speaking
of which . . .” He pulled something, a small vial, from a pocket.
“A little pig’s blood for the bed. I should not want the servants
speculating as to why there was no virgin’s stain upon the sheets
when they go to change them, and you know how obsessive about such
details members of the court can be if they catch wind of ...
irregularities.” He placed the vial on her bedside
table.
Estora listened to
his footsteps as he crossed the room to the door. Before he opened
it, he laughed once more. “Do not worry about that other female.
She will be no competition.”
She did not want to
give him the satisfaction of her asking, but she could not help
herself. “What do you mean?”
“A dead woman is no
competition. Do remember all I do, I do for you.” With that he was
through the door and it closed behind him.
Estora fell back
into her pillow, now cold after her exertions, made colder still by
the vile monster Richmont revealed himself to be. What additional
danger had Richmont put Karigan in than what she already faced in
Blackveil? All at once she was concerned for her friend, but a very
human part of her almost hoped it was true so that Zachary would be
hers, and hers alone.
She shuddered, and
sheltered herself in the warmth of his body.