Betrothed (2 page)

Which was just as well, since they did not see Rilen jerking the bridle out of her hands. “What are you doing, Seri? Why are you headed to the Athoni castle?” He brushed a lock of hair out of her face, his eyes possessive as he scanned her. “You shouldn’t be out here alone at night.”

Of course she shouldn’t. Even she had some sense, after all. But sense wouldn’t put food on her empty table, and Josdi was hungry. Mutinous, Seri stared up ahead, at the castle walls which loomed so near and yet so far away. “We need things from town. Money. You filled Josdi’s head with stories about the night market, and now here I am, heading there to buy dinner,” she said, irritated that she had to explain herself. It was even more irritating that he didn’t seem to understand their dire situation at home. What was she supposed to feed her father and sister? Hay?

Rilen tugged old Bialla forward with a strong hand, his other leading his own horse. “If you are determined to be foolish enough to head into the Athoni market, at least let me go with you. What will the others say if I let my future bride get killed over an old broken farmer and a blind girl?”

She ignored his thoughtless comments. Rilen was like that at times—blowing hard when he felt his manhood threatened, especially in the face of the interloper Athonites. As she watched, he glared at the Athoni soldiers nearby, putting a proprietary hand around her waist to claim her. Typical Rilen. Still, it grated on her nerves and took everything she had to swallow down her retort. “You were not there, Rilen,” she said, forcing her tone to be even and calm. “There was nothing for Josdi to eat. What was I supposed to do?”

“I was coming over. You could have waited for me.”

As usual, it was useless to argue with Rilen. Instead of throwing herself into the dispute as she usually would, she eyed the caravan that took over the entire road and remained silent. If the Athonites must see the Vidari, at least let them be united together.

Still, it was a long walk to the castle.

~~* * * ~~

The last rays of the sun disappeared, and Graeme felt his strength return. He relaxed for the first time in hours.

Across from him inside the carriage, Lady Casila put an embroidered handkerchief to her nose. “Savages,” she said in a haughty tone. “I cannot believe that you let that one touch your carriage and live, Prince Graeme.”

Graeme stared coldly at Lady Casila’s features, beautiful in the dancing shadows cast by the lantern. Beautiful, but elegantly icy, like all his people. She was the epitome of a courtier, with her beautiful, teasing smile and the high collar of her gown that hid the markings of the many bites of her previous suitors.

And she was angling for him as her next conquest. He knew that, and he had thus far allowed her flirtatious advances. Graeme looked over at Lady Aynee, seated next to him. She was his current lover, and if things continued as they were, she would soon be his lover no more. For three long months they’d been companions and bedmates, and he’d drunk from her beautiful throat. But, like all mortals, the taste of her soon faded from his tongue, and he knew that it would be time to choose another soon.

Such was the way of life for a prince of the Blood—to flit from throat to throat, lover to lover. Never to find relief with a partner, except for the mythical Eterna.

And so even though Lady Casila was haughty and proud, unlike sweet Lady Aynee, he would likely take her as his next mistress. He had not drunk from her yet, not tasted that cool throat beneath his lips. Thus she was as good a choice as any other.

If he could only persuade her to be silent.

“Did you smell that creature? Vile.” Lady Casila touched her handkerchief to her nose again.

Graeme gave her a haughty look, meant to intimidate and silence. It worked, of course. None would dare to anger a prince of the Blood.

He’d barely glanced at the girl, to be honest. All he’d seen was a glimpse of startled eyes, brown skin, and waves of messy blond hair. He’d been far more interested in the distressing, loud, unmannered behavior of his soldiers, and had scarce given the girl a thought. “A native, I assume,” he said, acknowledging Casila’s spoken thoughts.

“One of the Vidari,” Lady Aynee murmured at his side.

Casila fanned herself. “Do they still roam the plains in heathen packs?”

“Not since my father conquered them a hundred years ago,” Graeme said drily. Casila’s antics and overblown comments were designed to stir up conversation, and they were working—but he wanted to silence her, not encourage her.

“Is that why you have moved your court to this horrible land? Are those wild men causing trouble?”

The Vidari weren’t wild but downtrodden, he wanted to retort, but held his tongue. After all, his father—the king of the Athoni lands—wanted to make sure that the Vidari remained as they ever were: sullen, broken, and insignificant.

It was why he was here, after all. Here to take up residence in a crumbling relic of a castle that even his ancestors would have scorned. Here to bring one of the Blood to the forefront of their minds, to remind them why they were conquered and who had conquered them. To remind them who their betters were. Then, when this small piece of the kingdom was settled once more, he could return to Athon and the life at court.

Or so they all thought. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. Ah yes, court. Lady Casila was already counting the days until Graeme’s circle would return to civilized lands.

They hadn’t believed him when he had declared his plans to retire from the Athon court entirely.

~~* * * ~~

To Seri’s relief, Rilen gave her cheek an absent kiss and wandered away once they passed through the castle gates. No doubt he’d gone in search of one of his friends and coconspirators to obsess over the latest appearance of Athoni nobles in the Vidari lands. Still, without him lording over every decision she made—something that still smarted despite their forthcoming handfasting—she was able to find the tailor’s stall and show him her wares.

Goose feathers were appallingly common in the poor Vidari lands, of course, and Seri was ashamed to have to haggle over the price. She suspected Maester Grimald—a longtime friend of her father’s—took pity on her situation. “I can’t give you more than six rumma for all three bags of feathers, Seri,” he said apologetically.

“Six rumma?” she repeated, disappointed. “But they’re worth three times that much.” Her dreams of saving for a little cow in the spring were lost in the troublesome reality of having to feed her father and sister with the meager change he offered. “Six rumma will barely buy a sack of flour.”

“It’s all I can give you, my girl,” he said, patting her arm. “You know about the uprisings to the north?” His mouth thinned and he shook his head. “The Athonites are trying to break the rebellious factions by declaring all Vidari goods to be taxed at three times the amount. They figure if we’re too busy trying to survive, no one will have time to rebel.”

“But that’s ridiculous.” She thought with hate of the man with the cold eyes who had stared at her on the way to the palace itself. “How can we survive on such meager amounts?”

“I don’t know,” he agreed. “All I know is that it is law now, and I must obey if I mean to keep my business.”

Blinking back disappointed tears, Seri nodded and held her hand out for the coins. “Whatever you can give me, I’ll take, Maester Grimald. You have my thanks.”

“I’ll give you six more rumma for all your little pillows as well.”

Six more would at least let her buy some decent food supplies. With relief, she agreed to his deal, though she was a bit surprised. “I’d not have thought there was a larger market for pretty little pillows than mattress feathers,” she said, her voice carrying a tinge of bitterness.

“With all the noble ladies in the city, they’re spending a lot of coin on useless things, and freely. They’ll buy these as soon as I put them out, wait and see.” He gave her a kindly pat on the shoulder and a fond wink. “The last lot that Josdi made sold for a fine bit of coin. Tell your sister I shall buy all of them that she makes.”

Seri smiled at the elder man, grateful for his kindness. “She will be so pleased. She works hard to be useful.”

“Useful she is,” Maester Grimald agreed, handing her a bag of material scraps for more small pillows. “Just in different ways than plain folk such as you and me.”

Kind words, if hard to hear for someone that worked from sunup to sundown to keep food on the table. Seri managed a wan smile for him. “Indeed.”

He hesitated a moment, then leaned in. “Can you carry a message to Rilen for me?”

She smiled. “Of course. What shall I tell him?”

Maester Grimald’s gaze flicked to the guards milling about outside the small tent, then back to her. “Tell him,” he said, his voice so low she had to strain to hear. “Tell him that we meet at noon tomorrow.”

A knot formed in her stomach as she eyed the nervous shopkeeper. Was Rilen part of the rebellion here? Things like that could lead to trouble for him and her family. Before she could ask, Maester Grimaldi turned away, clearing his throat, and headed back behind the counter. Her thoughts swimming, she tucked the small purse of coins into her belt and took the bag of scraps, heading for the entrance of the tent. She paused by one table of linens and fingered a fine green brocade thoughtfully.

Would she be able to have a nice dress for her handfasting in a few weeks? It seemed unlikely at this rate. Perhaps Rilen would gift her with a surprise. Her face flushed at the embarrassing thought of not being able to afford her own handfasting dress. Worse still, that she be handfasted in her work clothes.

“That’s a rather expensive fabric for one such as yourself to be handling, dear girl.”

At the unfamiliar, cultured voice, Seri turned, searching for the speaker. The covered booth was filled with shadows, thanks to the flickering candlelight. A beautiful Athoni woman stood in the tent across from her, followed closely behind by a frowning maidservant. She lifted her skirts as she stepped in, eyeing Seri as one would a filthy dog and revealing dainty, impractical shoes. An ornate, woven-gold crown decorated her brow, resting on dark braids artfully wrapped about her head. Her skin was milk-pale and her eyes a cat-like slit of green. An expensive silk dress in the high Athoni style—tight around the bust and waist and loose to the floor with an ornate hem—marked her as one of the visiting nobles. Seri stiffened at the condescension in the woman’s voice. Were all these Athonites alike?

The woman stepped forward and regarded Seri with critical eyes. “Interesting.” Her regal voice froze Seri on the spot and she stood there, helpless while the woman cast her jaundiced eye over the farm girl. “A bit dark of skin and uncouth, but typical for your wild people, I imagine.” She stepped closer to Seri and touched a lock of her dark blond waves. “Given the right clothing and facial creams…” The woman hummed to herself thoughtfully and reached for Seri’s hand, turning it over and staring at the calluses on her palm.

Seri snatched it out of the stranger’s grip. “What do you want?”

The woman tsked and smiled, the flash of teeth setting Seri on edge. “Do you know who I am, girl?” At Seri’s silence, she laughed. “My name is Mila de Vray, Lady of Goldenvale and daughter of Lord de Vray, one of the king’s most trusted advisers.”

When none of this registered on Seri’s face, Mila’s pleasant mouth turned down at the edges. “The prince is to be betrothed within the next few days, and I am one of the most likely candidates for his mate.” She gave her regal head a toss.

With her beautiful clothing and pretty, pale skin, Seri had no doubt that the woman spoke the truth. Still, it puzzled her. “What does that have to do with me?”

Lady Mila regarded her with an amused, petulant smile, showing a flash of white teeth. “You’re a comely enough sort for one of the wild people—what is it you’re called?”

“Vidari,” Seri said, stiffening at the veiled insult. Her people had not been “wild” in generations. Obviously the Athonites didn’t notice such things.

The lady waved a casual hand. “Vidari, of course.” She paused for a moment, as if considering her words, and then continued. “You see, Vidari girl, I need something refreshing and just a tiny bit scandalous to catch the prince’s eye at the ceremony.” Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “What better way to stand out than to be accompanied by a wild girl as my attendant?”

Seri managed to keep her face composed in light of the insult. “I am not interested.”

The woman was hardly deterred. “I’ll pay you well. Three
dru
for the week, provided you show up tomorrow so we can…” She sniffed. “…Clean you up a bit and teach you some of the basics of servitude.”

Three
dru
? That was more than her family saw in a year. One
dru
alone would buy a cow. Two was uninhibited luxury. Three? Three was madness.

Three
dru
to debase herself in front of the Athoni nobles and make a mockery of her people.

“I’m not interested,” she maintained, fixing her frown on the noblewoman. Oh, but three
dru
. She could have wept at the loss.

Lady Mila gave a liquid shrug. “Pity. I should dearly like to have a savage at my side when I make my entrance. Should you change your mind, ask for me at the gate to the inner bailey of the castle.” Long, graceful arms slid up, shrugging a long, thick veil around her shoulders as a wrap.

“I won’t.” Seri lifted her chin and swept out of the tailoring shop, her cheeks stinging, and went to load her mule. It would be late before she got home that evening, but she knew that Josdi and her father would be waiting for an evening meal—a meal she still needed to cook. Weariness overtook her, and she glanced back at the shop, feeling guilty for even considering for a moment Lady Mila’s outrageous offer.

By the time Bialla was loaded with her purchases, Rilen returned with one of his friends in tow—hotheaded Jovis, whom she disliked intensely. Rilen leaned over and kissed Seri on the cheek, his large hand clasping her shoulder. “Ah, my lovely Seri. Did you make your money?”