The Oracle's Queen (25 page)

“You bastard!” Lutha was on his feet again, reddening at the accusation. Caliel and Barieus both got hold of him this time. Alben laughed as they pulled him from the room before he could defend his honor.

S
itting by the balcony door in her shift, trying to catch a breath of morning breeze, Nalia looked down at the red stain in her lap and smiled. She didn't mind the discomfort and mess of her moon flow; it meant a welcome respite from her husband's cold attentions.

Korin still came to her almost every night, and she never refused him, though she still sometimes wept after he'd gone. He was never cruel or coarse, but neither was
he passionate. Their congress was merely duty, a task to be carried out as quickly and efficiently as possible. She got no pleasure from it, and wondered if he did, beyond the physical release. Had he been cruel, she might have found the courage finally to make that leap from the balcony. As it was, she'd grown resigned.

She had known affection with Niryn, and passion, and she had mistakenly imagined herself his beloved.

Life was nothing like that with Korin. When he was sober he would take time before their coupling to drink with her and tell her something of his day. It was all speculation about weaponry and marches, and bored her terribly.

Sometimes he asked about her day, though, and she'd dared hint at the empty hours. He'd surprised her, letting her come downstairs to dine more often. He still refused to let her outside the fortress to ride or walk along the cliffs, claiming it wasn't safe, but little comforts began to arrive.

She had stacks of books now, baskets of needlework and painting supplies, even a cage of cheerful yellow birds. Korin also sent gifts of perfumes and cosmetics, but these felt more like unspoken taunts. Her mirror had never lied to her and she'd long since made peace with her reflection. Did this man think that a little paint would change the way she looked? It hurt that it mattered enough for him to send such things, just as it still hurt that he would only come to her bed after the lamps had been put out. Niryn had never made her feel ugly.

Niryn. It still felt as if her heart would tear itself in two, whenever she thought of him. She could not escape him; he was there at table, and often walked with her, speaking lightly of inconsequential things, as if they were mere acquaintances. She realized now that he enjoyed this game between them, knowing that she could never speak the truth to Korin, even if she'd dared.

Oh, but how she longed to! She dreamed of it sometimes, screaming out the truth, so that Korin would mete
out his wrath on her seducer. The Korin in her dreams was a warmer, kinder man than the waking reality. She often wished he were not so handsome and coolly attentive. She couldn't quite bring herself to hate him as she did Niryn, but she could not love him, either.

She dressed and returned to her chair. “Tomara, tell my husband my moon blood has come again.”

The woman examined the stained linen and Nalia could see the woman counting silently on her fingers. “Aye, lady. Such a pity!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why, you've not kindled, and him trying so hard!”

Nalia was shocked at the hint of reproof. “You make it sound as if I'm to blame. Haven't I endured his efforts without complaint?”

“Of course you have, my lady. But he's fathered children on other women before you.”

“Others?” Nalia said faintly. She'd never considered that.

Tomara patted her hand. “There are women whose wombs are stony, my lady, and can't sprout their husband's seed, no matter how many times he plants it. If you prove barren, then what shall our young king do for an heir?” She shook her head and set about tidying up the room.

A stony womb? Nalia pressed her fingers to her lips, not wanting to betray the sudden hope she felt. Niryn's seed had never grown in her, either! If she were barren, then Korin would have no use for her. Perhaps he would put her aside for another and she would be free!

She composed herself quickly and took up her embroidery hoop. “You say my husband has had children with other women? Can none of them be his heir? What about his first wife?”

“A sad tale, that. She kindled twice, but lost the first too early and died trying to birth the second.”

“What about the child?”

“It died, as well, poor little mite. If he's got bastards, I haven't heard of them. Besides, only a trueborn heir will do, says Lord Niryn. That's what makes you such a precious jewel, my lady. You have the blood and Lord Niryn claims your family breeds girls. If you give the king a daughter, then who can dispute her claim to the throne? Not that pretender in Ero!” She made an ill luck sign. “Necromancy or pure lies, that's all that is! Mad as his mother, that one, so everyone says.”

“Prince Tobin, you mean?” asked Nalia. Korin seldom spoke of his cousin except to call him “usurper” and mad.

“Your poor husband loved him like a brother. But during the Battle of Ero Prince Tobin ran away and come back with a gang of renegades at his back, claiming to be a
girl
and the queen!”

Nalia stared at her, then burst out laughing. “Don't tell me anyone believed that?”

“Why do you think we're way up here, rather than in the capital?” Tomara asked. “Traitors and fools, they are, but there are enough of them to back the boy's claim. It'll be war, I warrant, if they try to go against King Korin. Such nonsense! It's those Illiorans and a pack of mad priests and wizards that's behind it.” Her faded eyes went hard and angry. “The old king had the right idea. Burn 'em and be done with it. Now look what we've come to? No, my lady, you must bear a daughter for your dear husband, and soon, for the good of the land.”

A
s Nalia had hoped, news of her menses kept Korin away for the required days. She embroidered and played cards with Tomara and read her books, tales of knights perishing for the love of their ladies. Tomara brought her special teas, brewed from cane berry leaves, honey, and unicorn root, to make her womb more fertile.

The thought of the king's other wife and whatever other children he might have fathered preyed on her mind,
much to her surprise. She was not jealous, just bored to death and hungry for any sort of gossip.

“You could find out for me, Tomara. He is my husband, after all. Don't I have a right to know? Perhaps it might help,” she wheedled, sensing she had Tomara's attention. “I do so want to please him,” she lied. “There must be some among his men who know his—tastes?”

Fortunately, Tomara was a bit of a gossip herself, and easily won over to the task. When she brought in the supper tray that night, she was smiling very smugly.

Nalia clasped her hands eagerly. “You learned something, didn't you?”

“Aye, perhaps,” the old woman teased as they sat down to eat beside the hearth.

Nalia kissed her, the way she used to charm her nurse into telling secrets. “Come on now, who did you speak to?”

“Your husband's manservant. He told me that the king's fathered no living children at all! Not so much as a bastard. Bellies have swelled, but not a child has lived.”

“Not one? How sad!” Nalia said, forgetting her own hopes for a moment. “No wonder Korin is so glum when he comes to me.”

“Aye, bad luck,” Tomara murmured, nibbling at a slice of bread with an arch look.

“There's something else, isn't there?”

“Well, I shouldn't tell you—”

“Tomara, I—I command you!”

“Well, it's only gossip, mind you. Soldiers are worse than old women when it comes to that, and superstitious.”

“Out with it!” Nalia cried, resisting the urge to pinch her.

“Well, just between the two of us, my lady, I've heard a few among the ranks whisper that Korin's seed is cursed, on account of his father seizing the throne from his sister. But Princess Ariani was mad as a spring weasel, and she
had no daughter. Stillborn, the girl babe was, or perhaps she killed the child. Who knows? It's no wonder that son of hers turned out a bad sort.”

“Oh, you'll drive me mad with your rambling! I don't give a broken pin for Prince Tobin. Tell me about Korin!”

“It's on account of the prophecy. Surely you know of that?”

“The Prophecy of Afra, you mean? The old king and my husband are cursed by that?”

“That's what the Illiorans would have us believe,” Tomara sniffed. “All the droughts and crop blight and that plague? All because a ‘daughter of Thelátimos' doesn't sit on the throne. Didn't stop the rains from coming back this spring, though, did it?”

Nalia pondered this. “But King Erius is dead. Maybe that broke the curse?”

“Which doesn't say much for the Illiorans' claim to a queen. And all the more reason for that other prince to give way, I say. Korin's claim is the stronger, being the child of Agnalain's firstborn.”

“But what about the curse on Korin's children?” Nalia asked impatiently.

Tomara leaned close and whispered, “It's said that he's fathered nothing but monsters, dead before they could draw breath.”

Nalia shivered in spite of the day's lingering heat. “His other wife, she died in childbirth?”

Tomara sensed her misstep at once. “Oh pet! She wasn't of the royal line, was she? Not like you. The old king died and took the curse with him. The sun shines on the new king, and on you. You're the last, you see! With nothing but two princes left, you
are
the daughter of Thelátimos, and your children have the true claim. You'll be the mother of queens!”

Nalia nodded bravely, but fear turned the bread to ashes in her mouth.

*  *  *

H
er bleeding passed on the sixth day, and the following night Korin resumed his cheerless visits, sometimes coming to her drunk and barely able to consummate the act.

Tomara brought her those herbal infusions again, too, but Nalia only pretended to drink them and poured them into the commode when the woman was out of the room.

T
amír stayed in Ero long enough to celebrate Ki's name day. It had been a small celebration this year, just the Companions and a few close friends, with lots of wine and honey cake. Tamír joined in the drinking and jokes, but found herself watching Ki with different eyes as he teased the new squires about fidgeting with their braids. They were still children, really, but he was a man grown.

An age to be thinking of marriage
.

Since the night of the victory feast, he'd gone back to his cot in the dressing room, as if nothing had happened between them.
Perhaps nothing did
, she thought sadly.

She had more wine than usual and woke the next morning with a heavy head. As the column set off for Atyion, she saw most of the others wincing and blinking in the hot sun.

Ki looked fresher than any of them. “Are you unwell?” he teased, and grinned at the dark look she gave him.

Tamír rode out with her Companions and wizards, dressed for show in a riding gown under her breastplate and sword belt.

Outside, the great column filled the road, banners and armor bright in the sunlight. Baggage carts and foot soldiers brought up the rear. It wasn't only soldiers in the column today. Illardi, Iya, and Nikides had spent weeks tracking down the remaining scribes and functionaries who'd served at Erius' court and testing their loyalty. Most gladly gave their allegiance to the new queen, some out of loyalty to who she was and what she represented, others in hopes of keeping their positions at court.

Nearly forty now rode with the baggage train: scribes, chamberlains, document keepers, footmen, and bailiffs. It was virtually a ready-made court.

The crowds that gathered along the road to see them off were smaller and more subdued than they had been a few days earlier, their mood almost sullen.

“Don't leave us, Majesty!” they called out. “Don't abandon Ero!”

R
iding just behind Tamír with the other wizards, Arkoniel could tell the words stung. She was young and craved her people's love.

Once they were well on their way Arkoniel rode back to check on his younger charges, who were making the long journey in a cart.

It was a large, comfortable cart with a canvas awning, and the bed was filled with soft straw for the children to lie in. Ethni had been disappointed at having to stay with the younger ones, and insisted on taking the reins. Wythnir sat on the driver's bench beside her and waved as Arkoniel rode up to them. A crowd of foot soldiers had gathered around it, entranced at the little spells the children knew. They gave Arkoniel respectful nods and made way for him to ride beside the cart. The wizards had noticed more goodwill among the common soldiers since the battle.

The children rose and clung to the side of the cart at his approach.

“How are you faring so far?” he asked.

“I have to pee!” Danil declared.

“He's been twice already since we left,” Rala said, rolling her eyes.

“You'll have to work out that for yourselves,” Arkoniel replied. “And how are you?” he asked Wythnir.

The child just shrugged.

“Come now, what's the matter?” Arkoniel chided, already guessing the answer.

“Nothing,” the child mumbled.

“Your long face says otherwise.”

Wythnir ducked his head and mumbled. “Thought you'd gone away again. Like before.”

“When I left you in the mountains, you mean?”

The boy nodded. “And when you went off to fight.”

Ethni had told him how upset the boy had been, but there'd been no help for it then. He had to learn that Arkoniel's duty to Tamír would always come first.

All the same, he did the best he could to make it up to him. Arkoniel could only guess at the life the child had known before he'd come to Kaulin in return for some debt. The man had not been cruel as far as Arkoniel knew, but treated him little better than a useful hound before passing him off to Arkoniel.