Betrothed (19 page)

“For some reason, I had always thought Graeme would marry a lady of the court. I thought if he married you, he must love you.” Meluoe tilted her head and studied Seri as if she were fascinated.

It was a rather disconcerting look. “The betrothal took that option away from either of us, I’m afraid.”

“Just so,” Meluoe agreed. “But I’ve never known my brother to be forced into anything he did not want.”

“There is a first time for everything,” Seri countered lightly and glanced at the kittens. “Am I interrupting?”

A bright grin flashed across Meluoe’s face again, and Seri was struck by how much she looked like Graeme once more. She never saw him smile much, and the thought made her heart ache a little. “The kittens were born a week ago,” Meluoe said with excitement, kneeling back in the straw again, heedless of her gown. “Their eyes aren’t open yet, but the stableboys promised to keep one for me if we are still here at that time.”

Seri sank into the straw next to Graeme’s sister and allowed Meluoe to hand her a kitten. It was soft, so tiny that she could scarce believe the frailty of it, and warm. She cradled it against her breast, hoping the tiny thing could feel the warmth of her skin through the layers of Athoni clothing. “I was surprised to find you out here,” Seri admitted. “I thought you would be in the solar with the rest of the women of the court.”

Meluoe scratched the tiny head of the kitten with short, bitten fingernails—a feature that made her seem more human in Seri’s eyes. “No, I’m afraid the court ladies don’t like me much.” She smiled faintly. “They cannot forget the circumstances of my birth.”

So Meluoe was an outcast as well? A surge of warmth shot through Seri, and she smiled for what felt like the first time in ages. “Then it seems we are of a similar situation, you and I.”

“Sisters in more ways than one,” Meluoe agreed, then hesitated before adding, “You should give Graeme a chance, Seri. I know my brother, and he’s a good man. If he’s hard about something, it’s because he has not seen the truth of it for himself. Give him time.”

Seri held the kitten to her cheek, feeling the soft fur against her skin. She didn’t comment on Meluoe’s words, though her mind spun with images of Graeme. His gentle hands tugging at her hips on their wedding night. His solicitous courtesy to her in front of the court, despite the fact that the rest of them eyed her as they would a mongrel dog. His silence when she stabbed him last night. It was all very confusing. So she said nothing at all, simply stroked the kitten and let it calm her.

The moment of peace was broken all too soon. “My lady! Princesse!” Kell’s urgent voice called across the stable, and the two women exchanged a wordless look. Seri handed the kitten back to Meluoe and stood, composing herself for the worst. But Kell only gave her a curious look, then bowed. “The prince searches for you, Princesse. He says that your presence is urgently required in the drawing room.”

Seri sighed, disappointed that her hours of leisure were coming to a close. She turned back to Meluoe. “Will you come with me?”

The woman shook her head, still focused on the small kitten in her lap. “I’ll be forced to go back soon enough, when mother finds out where I’ve been. I’ll stay out here for a bit longer, if that’s all right with you.” She smiled up at Seri, faintly. “I hope we shall spend more time together in the coming days.”

“Of course,” Seri said, and she meant it.

~~* * * ~~

Kell led her back into the oppressive maze of Vidara Castle, but he would not let her go back to her room to straighten her hair or change her dress, which was now stained at the hem from the stables and courtyard. “I am told the prince seemed quite impatient to see you, my lady.”

She let him lead her onward, and as they turned down another familiar passage, a pair of guards appeared and moved to each of her sides, protecting her. Seri frowned at their appearance, but she said nothing. She’d have to talk to Graeme—this was ridiculous. As if she needed a fortress of Athoni men surrounding her.

A servant opened the door to the throne room, and Seri was led in by the guards, her heart hammering nervously in her throat. The prince sat at the front of the room in an ornate throne, and the one next to it—smaller and less ornate—was empty. The queen was nowhere to be seen, for which she was grateful, but the room was filled with guardsmen and priests, Athonites and Vidari alike. An elderly man with a long beard stood over Graeme’s shoulder, his robes rich, and he carried a tablet at his side. He frowned at the sight of her, a barely veiled sneer on his long-nosed face.
Well
, she thought with a certain wry knowledge.
This must be the vizier.

As the guards led her across the cold stone floor without budging from her side, it felt as if she were being brought in as a captive and a chill shot through her. Graeme’s face ahead was unyielding, offering her no secrets or relief. The court was silent as she approached, and her heart hammered in her breast. Something was wrong, very very wrong.

She approached the edge of the dais and paused, hesitating. Graeme gestured, ever so slightly, at the throne next to his, and in that moment, the bulk of her unease vanished, and she climbed the steps to the top of the dais and sat in the chair. So it was not her that was under duress, but someone else. When Graeme extended his hand to her between their thrones, she automatically placed hers in his with the same courteous demeanor he always offered her in public. His fingers were cold against her own.

The courtroom paused, seemed to be waiting for something, and she looked over at Graeme in a mix of curiosity and dread.

He studied her for a moment, searching her face for something, then leaned over to his vizier, whispering something.

The vizier stepped forward and cleared his throat. “His majesty the prince asks that the prisoners be brought forth.” His strident voice rang out through the courtroom.

Prisoners? A cold feeling rose in Seri’s gut, but she forced herself to remain as calm and motionless as the man who held her hand.

A group of men, surrounded by guards, were dragged forward. They were filthy and bedraggled, their clothing torn and their bodies covered in mud. Her heart skipped an uncomfortable beat when she noticed the brown skin of the Vidari. She couldn’t see their faces from this angle and found herself craning forward on her seat, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar face.

“Bring them forward,” the prince said with a quick glance over at her.

The men were shoved forward, and Seri jerked in reaction as they fell to their knees, biting her lip to keep from screaming. A Vidari never knelt in submission—only the bonds that kept these men hobbled would have forced this, and as it was, it reeked of humiliation. Her cheeks burned in anger for them.

At the end of the row, one of the men looked up directly at her, and his lip curled in disgust. Seri’s heart fluttered, then stopped entirely as she stared at Rilen.

He looked terrible, his face bruised and swollen to the point she almost had not recognized him. Mud and filth covered his clothing, and he leaned heavily to one side, favoring his arm. He stared at her with cold, betrayed eyes, his gaze flicking to where Graeme held her hand.

Tears pricked in her eyes and she guiltily drew her hand out of Graeme’s and put it to her mouth so she would not scream.

The vizier had not noticed her reaction. “Recite the charges against these men for the prince so he may decide their punishment.”

One of the guardsmen stepped forward. “My lord,” he said, bowing to the vizier and the prince. “One of the falconers, Jastin of Suth, came to the guard with a problem last night. He claimed that his daughter, Kiane, had left to go to the Vidari village last night and had not returned by daylight.”

A sour feeling arose in the back of Seri’s throat, and her stomach clenched into a hard knot of fear. She stared into Rilen’s face, begging silently for it not to be true, but he only met her with hard, accusing eyes.

“A search was conducted through the village, and in one of the huts, our soldiers found these men, along with the dead body of the woman in question.”

A low, male sob broke out at the back of the room, and Seri’s horrified gaze darted to the elderly, balding man who clutched his hat and stared at the Vidari with heartbreak in his eyes. Kiane’s father.

She shut her eyes and averted her face, letting the courtroom become as black as her soul.

“The woman,” the vizier continued, ignorant of Seri’s horror, “had been brutally beaten by these men and then strangled. When questioned, they admitted to the deed and then attempted to attack the guards, at which time we had to subdue them.”

Bile rose in Seri’s throat, and she clenched her fist against her mouth as the courtroom broke out in angry cries. The people of the castle wanted blood.

Dear sweet Isla, this was all her fault.

It took a few minutes for the room to calm, but eventually Prince Graeme spoke. “These men will not be tried?” His voice was as cool and unaffected as ever, and Seri felt a burst of hate for him. Her world was crumbling around her and he was as distant as ever, a perfect statue.

“They will not,” the vizier agreed. “They confessed readily to the deed.”

“We would do it again,” the man next to Rilen shouted, and Seri recognized Jovis, Rilen’s coconspirator and troublemaker. “We’ll do the same to any of your kind that comes down to our village. We won’t rest until your pathetic kind is gone from our lands.” He looked at Seri with an ugly hate in his eyes and then spit in her direction.

The room fell quiet as Prince Graeme got to his feet, his tense form radiating an emotion other than boredom: anger. He swept toward the prisoners, and a few of the guards took a step back, uneasy. Graeme went to Jovis’s side and grasped him by his filthy chin. He lifted the man’s face and angled it toward Seri where she sat trembling on her throne.

“You have insulted my wife.”

“I’ll do it again,” Jovis sneered, trying to wrestle away from Graeme’s hand. “She’s a betrayer. She’s given up her rightful kind for your trash.”

“Speak your apologies or your entire family will be destroyed.” Graeme’s quiet voice rocked the courtroom. “I do not tolerate insults to the Blood.”

Seri’s hands fisted in her skirts, her body stiff with terror. She knew Jovis’s family—his sweet mother Claeva and his father Rog, who had always come to help her father with the plowing. His sister Ninna who had been friends with Seri until hardship had forced Seri to spend all her time trying to keep food in her father and sister’s mouths, and none at the village.

Graeme cannot do this
, she vowed, but the look on his face was alarming in its seriousness.

Tension hung in the air, and after a grudging moment, Jovis looked her way and nodded.

It wasn’t much in the way of apologies, but Graeme seemed to be satisfied. He released Jovis and the man fell forward to the floor, his cheek smacking on the hard flagstones. The other captive men looked uneasily at the prince as he strode back to his throne, anger still filling his body even as he sat with a graceful gesture.

He placed his hand out for Seri’s again, an unspoken demand. His aura flickered, then grew slightly. Not the calm, soft light of passion, but a dark shadow of anger and jealousy.

She wondered if her own aura revealed the same. With a quick, guilty glance at Rilen she hesitated, then placed her hand back in Graeme’s. A tear rolled down her face, and she quickly brushed it away with her free hand.

“Two insults have been dealt to my wife,” Graeme began, his voice bland and cultured. “Once here, and once for the reckless slaughter of her personal servant. It shall be for her to decide the punishment of the rebels.” His fingers tightened on hers, a possessive gesture, as if he could pry her away from them simply by holding her hard enough.

He meant for her to choose. He wanted her to pick the right choice for these men, these murderers. Vidari custom was that a murderer should hang, and she knew the Athoni law was no different. But she knew—as he did—that if Seri spoke it, she would be a traitor to her people forever.

Agonized, Seri looked at the faces staring up at her in the courtroom. They were all men she knew from the village, she realized, under the mud and the bruises. All young men, all part of Rilen’s foolish rebellion. It—and her own stubbornness—had cost poor young Kiane her life. Guilt threatened to swallow her, and she struggled to speak as the entire courtroom waited for her choice.

And she knew what she had to decide, even though she loathed herself for it.

“Release them,” she said, her voice soft.

The vizier turned to give her an incredulous look. “What did you say?” At the prince’s stare, he stammered and dropped to his knee. “My lady,” he added.

Her heart breaking, full of self-disgust, Seri spoke louder. “If it is my decision, then I ask that you let these men return to the Vidari people. Only a Vidari can pass judgment on a fellow Vidari tribesman. They will mete out the proper sentence there.”

Incredulous smiles broke out on the faces of the prisoners, and she saw Jovis sneak a glance over to Rilen, a knowing one, and her heart sank.

She’d chosen wrong. Judging from the looks on Rilen and Jovis’s faces, they would get no punishment at home. Her gut twisted, and she felt sick. She’d just released murderers, simply because they were Vidari. Now that she had said it, though, she could not go back. She had created a monster with her simple, cowardly decision. Rilen glanced at her, but his gaze seemed to be focused more on her hand clenched in Graeme’s, and then he glanced away as the guards brought them to their feet.

“My lord?” The vizier sputtered, clearly unwilling to believe Seri’s decision would carry. “Surely…”

Graeme’s voice was flat. “It is my wife’s decision. The insult was to her. No more shall be said about it. You are all dismissed.”

With that, he stood, his hand tightly holding Seri’s. She stood as well, her legs leaden as she followed Prince Graeme out of the room and into an antechamber. She’d been in this room before, she realized dully, staring at the maps on the walls and the war-table. His thinking room.