The High King's Tomb
Page 19
PATCHWORK PRIDE
Lady Estora Coutre slipped quietly into the corridor and eased her chamber door shut behind her, overcome by a sudden giddy sense of freedom. The morning was early yet, and none of her attendants had risen, nor had her mother or any of her numerous cousins, aunts, or siblings who had traveled over sea and land to be present during this momentous time in her life. The other unrelated noble ladies who clung to her like limpets to a rock would be abed for hours yet. They had not been born and raised on the sunrise coast as she had, where the days started much earlier.
Alone. She was finally alone.
Except for the Weapon who peeled away from the wall and followed her. She was growing rather accustomed to her shadow-clad guardians, and while their presence might jangle the nerves of her relations who were unused to them, to her they had become almost invisible. They stayed out of her way and remained silent unless addressed directly. They would not report her early morning sojourns unless she ordered them to, which, of course, she would not.
Trained to safeguard members of the royal family to the death, their code of honor held discretion sacred. It was not their place to comment on or question the actions of their wards, but to protect. She found it inconceivable, however, that they didn’t have the odd conversation or two among themselves about what happened in the course of their workday. In any case, she doubted she had given them much to gossip about thus far.
She drew a shawl over her head and walked along the corridor, hoping none would awaken and note her passage, or insist they accompany her, or try to redirect her, or fill her ears with inane chatter. It had been almost too much to bear these last couple months. Was this how her life would be from here on in? She feared it would be so.
Fortunately no one burst through a doorway to ruin her morning. It was as if the castle itself slumbered. The air did not stir and the corridors were dusky and quiet. Peaceful. Soon enough it would awaken, brimming with people hurrying from here to there on errands, appointments, and meetings, and there would be much tiresome activity. Best to enjoy the solitude while she could.
Zachary must be well used to always being in the company of others, though she sensed he liked it no more than she. In fact, the two of them were so constantly surrounded by others that they were rarely able to speak with each other, and certainly not privately. They would never get to know one another until their wedding night. If even then the throngs let them alone…
In their brief exchanges, Zachary had been kind and courtly, but distant, just as she supposed she had been herself. This matchmaking of nobles was an awkward tradition. It was, her mother informed her time and again, the way things had been done for hundreds and hundreds of years. Her mother hadn’t even looked upon her father until their wedding day. Over time her parents had grown fond of one another, and had even found mutual respect and love in their lengthy partnership. It would be the same for Estora and Zachary, her mother assured her.
Estora had always known it would be this way. She had known since she was a little girl that she would be paired with a man not of her choosing. The knowing, however, was not the same as the reality.
Choice was never a part of my life.
No, this is what she had been born and bred for: to be the wife of some highborn man and to bear his children. Nothing more. Had she been born mindless, the outcome would have been the same.
Do any of us really have any choices, or are we all pieces on an Intrigue board, moved to action by someone else’s will?
The thought brought to mind a conversation she had with Karigan not so long ago. The two of them had been sitting together in the inner courtyard gardens and she had just revealed to Karigan that the king signed her father’s contract of marriage. Then without thinking, she had told Karigan that she envied her for her freedom, the freedom to do as she wished, and to marry whom she wanted.
It had been a mistake. Estora should have known better. No one chose to be a Green Rider, one was called to service. A magical calling, as she understood it. An irresistible, unyielding call that could break your mind if you failed to heed it. It did not matter what you were doing with your life—the call made you drop everything and come serve the king as one of his messengers. Choice was not involved.
She paused at an intersection of corridors, deciding she would head for the outdoors to listen to birds and breathe the free air. She turned down the corridor that led past the kitchens and to a servants’ entrance.
She tugged her shawl closer, and passed a servant pausing along the corridor to yawn. He rubbed his eyes and forged on in the opposite direction.
Pleased he hadn’t even noticed her, she continued on her way. It was odd, but the more people crowded around her, the lonelier she felt. The only reason they flocked to her was because she was to be queen with all of that rank’s attendant power, not because they cared about her as a person. Since that day in the garden, Karigan had behaved the opposite of everyone else by avoiding her, and it hurt. She’d turn in the other direction if by chance they met in a corridor, and she even declined formal invitations to join Estora for tea. Karigan had been the one person who offered Estora genuine friendship with no conditions attached, and she missed it.
If only F’ryan were still alive, she would not be so alone. She felt his loss as keenly as if it had happened just yesterday and not two years ago; and in the deep of night, when she was most lonely, she still wept for him. Wept for her lost love, wept for the emptiness in her heart. She held on to her memories of him as if they were the only things anchoring her to Earth; memories of his laughter, his touch, and the light shining in his eyes.
Lady Estora Coutre slipped quietly into the corridor and eased her chamber door shut behind her, overcome by a sudden giddy sense of freedom. The morning was early yet, and none of her attendants had risen, nor had her mother or any of her numerous cousins, aunts, or siblings who had traveled over sea and land to be present during this momentous time in her life. The other unrelated noble ladies who clung to her like limpets to a rock would be abed for hours yet. They had not been born and raised on the sunrise coast as she had, where the days started much earlier.
Alone. She was finally alone.
Except for the Weapon who peeled away from the wall and followed her. She was growing rather accustomed to her shadow-clad guardians, and while their presence might jangle the nerves of her relations who were unused to them, to her they had become almost invisible. They stayed out of her way and remained silent unless addressed directly. They would not report her early morning sojourns unless she ordered them to, which, of course, she would not.
Trained to safeguard members of the royal family to the death, their code of honor held discretion sacred. It was not their place to comment on or question the actions of their wards, but to protect. She found it inconceivable, however, that they didn’t have the odd conversation or two among themselves about what happened in the course of their workday. In any case, she doubted she had given them much to gossip about thus far.
She drew a shawl over her head and walked along the corridor, hoping none would awaken and note her passage, or insist they accompany her, or try to redirect her, or fill her ears with inane chatter. It had been almost too much to bear these last couple months. Was this how her life would be from here on in? She feared it would be so.
Fortunately no one burst through a doorway to ruin her morning. It was as if the castle itself slumbered. The air did not stir and the corridors were dusky and quiet. Peaceful. Soon enough it would awaken, brimming with people hurrying from here to there on errands, appointments, and meetings, and there would be much tiresome activity. Best to enjoy the solitude while she could.
Zachary must be well used to always being in the company of others, though she sensed he liked it no more than she. In fact, the two of them were so constantly surrounded by others that they were rarely able to speak with each other, and certainly not privately. They would never get to know one another until their wedding night. If even then the throngs let them alone…
In their brief exchanges, Zachary had been kind and courtly, but distant, just as she supposed she had been herself. This matchmaking of nobles was an awkward tradition. It was, her mother informed her time and again, the way things had been done for hundreds and hundreds of years. Her mother hadn’t even looked upon her father until their wedding day. Over time her parents had grown fond of one another, and had even found mutual respect and love in their lengthy partnership. It would be the same for Estora and Zachary, her mother assured her.
Estora had always known it would be this way. She had known since she was a little girl that she would be paired with a man not of her choosing. The knowing, however, was not the same as the reality.
Choice was never a part of my life.
No, this is what she had been born and bred for: to be the wife of some highborn man and to bear his children. Nothing more. Had she been born mindless, the outcome would have been the same.
Do any of us really have any choices, or are we all pieces on an Intrigue board, moved to action by someone else’s will?
The thought brought to mind a conversation she had with Karigan not so long ago. The two of them had been sitting together in the inner courtyard gardens and she had just revealed to Karigan that the king signed her father’s contract of marriage. Then without thinking, she had told Karigan that she envied her for her freedom, the freedom to do as she wished, and to marry whom she wanted.
It had been a mistake. Estora should have known better. No one chose to be a Green Rider, one was called to service. A magical calling, as she understood it. An irresistible, unyielding call that could break your mind if you failed to heed it. It did not matter what you were doing with your life—the call made you drop everything and come serve the king as one of his messengers. Choice was not involved.
She paused at an intersection of corridors, deciding she would head for the outdoors to listen to birds and breathe the free air. She turned down the corridor that led past the kitchens and to a servants’ entrance.
She tugged her shawl closer, and passed a servant pausing along the corridor to yawn. He rubbed his eyes and forged on in the opposite direction.
Pleased he hadn’t even noticed her, she continued on her way. It was odd, but the more people crowded around her, the lonelier she felt. The only reason they flocked to her was because she was to be queen with all of that rank’s attendant power, not because they cared about her as a person. Since that day in the garden, Karigan had behaved the opposite of everyone else by avoiding her, and it hurt. She’d turn in the other direction if by chance they met in a corridor, and she even declined formal invitations to join Estora for tea. Karigan had been the one person who offered Estora genuine friendship with no conditions attached, and she missed it.
If only F’ryan were still alive, she would not be so alone. She felt his loss as keenly as if it had happened just yesterday and not two years ago; and in the deep of night, when she was most lonely, she still wept for him. Wept for her lost love, wept for the emptiness in her heart. She held on to her memories of him as if they were the only things anchoring her to Earth; memories of his laughter, his touch, and the light shining in his eyes.
