The High King's Tomb
Page 68
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.”
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.”
