“So, am I to take away from this meeting your agreement to the marriage, your majesty?”
“Yes, of course. However, that is not worth even a pinch of salt until Valentyna agrees to it.” The King smiled when he saw the surprise and confusion register on Wyl’s face. “Valentyna is my heart’s joy. Wyl.
She pleases me immensely, not just because she’s my daughter but because she has turned into the person who is everything and more I could have ever hoped she would be. She sensed from a very young age that I might have somehow failed Briavel by giving them a female heir. She deliberately set her sights on becoming every bit as good as the son I didn’t give Briavel. She rides better than most men I know; she can shoot a deer cleanly with a single arrow and then skin that same beast faster and more adeptly than I could at twice her age. She has learned sword skills and battle strategy—neither of which I hope she ever needs to use.
“There is nothing soft or sappy about this woman. Wyl, and yet she is the most beautiful person with a gentle heart and a desire to rule Briavel firmly yet with a largesse only a woman can possess. She has genuine empathy for her people’s needs. She will make a fine ruler if she’s permitted to sit on the throne.
Which is why I will encourage her to make this marriage and bring peace to Briavel at last. I fear without our agreement. Celimus will choose war again.”
Wyl nodded. “That’s my understanding too, sire.”
He felt relief flooding his body. As the King spoke, his mind returned to Ylena in the Morgravian dungeon, knowing she was now safe. He had no doubt that Romen would keep his word and rescue her from Celimus. It was Valentyna’s arrival once again that dragged him from his thoughts.
Both men stood and turned. Wyl’s breath caught in his throat. Gone were the men’s clothes, the dusty hands, and the mud-smeared face. Tangled hair that had been carelessly caught under a man’s hat had been smoothed and now gleamed dark and shiny past her bare shoulders. She had attired herself in a simple gown with no adornments, but its ruby color showed off her creamy skin and raven hair to their best advantage. She wore no coloring about her face, which was polished to a healthy glow from nothing more complicated than a vigorous scrubbing.
Valentyna was tall and willowy—too slim perhaps. Wyl thought, recalling the almost boyish physique in breeches. And yet she carried herself with supreme grace as she glided across the room to kiss her father once again.
“Ah, that’s better, now you look like a Princess, my love,” he said, smiling indulgently.
“But I prefer how I was before.” she said. She turned to Wyl. “This more glamorous attire is for your benefit alone, sir.”
Wyl. finding it hard to speak, mumbled something about how glad of it he was and then cringed at how awkward he felt and sounded.
“Shall we eat?” she offered brightly and the men joined her at the table.
Wyl spent the next couple of hours in a swirl of confusion. Beneath the table his body betrayed him frequently as Valentyna’s sharply swooped neckline showed off the alluring swell of her breasts every time she reached across to help herself to food. And when she turned her blue gaze upon him, Wyl’s breath caught in his throat. He realized he could feel his own heartbeat and the drum of blood through his ears. All of it creating a dizzying and yet a pleasurable sensation as Valentyna, always animated, talked about everything from her new stallion to her plans to check the fences on the northern end of some vineyards.
“Goats, sheep, wild horses, you name it. They just wander in and eat our fine grapes.” she complained.
“I’ll be gone most of the day. Father.” she added.
He looked at Wyl with a pretend despair. “You see I have no control over her,” he admitted.
“You have come the closest, sire.” she answered affectionately, “but I have to tell you that no man ever will.”
And it was at those words that Wyl knew in his heart that he must prevent the marriage of Valentyna to Celimus at all costs. She was too bright, too beautiful, too headstrong, too talented, and far too much her own person to be wasted on the arrogant, cruel Celimus. They would hate one another and a new type of war would break out between the realms.
It would be as it was between Adana and Magnus, history repeating itself. Except Valentyna was neither cruel nor calculating. She would instead be smothered. He looked at the soft pulse he could see at Valentyna’s throat and he thought about Celimus touching that pale skin. It made him feel sick.
Wyl interrupted the conversation to ask whether there was a privy he could use. Valor, wondering at the General’s sudden paleness, pointed him to a small door cunningly concealed behind a tapestry. He gathered his wits in the privacy of the privy, dabbing his face with cool water from a pitcher and shaking his head ruefully at the position he found himself in. He was having to make a choice between Ylena and Valentyna. It occurred to him to bargain with Romen; perhaps he could still save Ylena?
“Are you well, Wyl?” Valentyna inquired, touching his hand as he returned to the table. Her warm touch sent a shocking thrill of pleasure through him.
“Pardon my mentioning it. but that is the widest drophole I’ve ever seen,” he said, trying to make light of his sudden departure from the table and overcome his desire to take her hand and kiss it. The King and Valentyna laughed, surprised by his turn of topic. “Well, the dropholes in Morgravia are far narrower.” He shrugged, embarrassed.
“Very savory chatter at supper, I must say,” Valentyna quipped, her bright eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Forgive me,” he said, and meant it but she waved his apology away.
“No. don’t. I much prefer that to the usual stuffy conversations I have to suffer through with Father’s friends. I like you. Wyl. I like your discomfort at being here.” she said and he felt her smile drift over and through him like sunlight.
“I am but a soldier, highness.” he said truthfully. “I shouldn’t be here.” Valor cleared his throat. “Which brings us to why you are here, Wyl. Valentyna, my dear, the General has brought an offer of marriage to you from the new King of Morgravia. That’s what we were discussing earlier.”
Wyl noticed she stopped chewing but that was the only sign that gave away her startlement.
“And what did you both decide about this?” she asked levelly, again disguising any personal feeling.
“Only what you’d expect us to—that such a union would bring peace to two long-warring realms, both in need of a release from the cycle of battle and death.”
Valentyna put down her fork and eyed the King. “I have not met him, Father—unless you count that one occasion all those years ago.”
“Oh, come now, child. You were just an infant and—”
“Very fat yes. I know.” she interrupted. “But—”
“I was going to say…and easy to tease. You’ve come a long way since then, child. You are a most remarkable young woman and highly accomplished in ways I would never have dreamed. You make me proud and you will make a dazzling Queen for any King.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes softened. “But we don’t know him. Father.”
“Well, here we have the perfect person at our table to tell us more. Come on, Wyl, explain to my precious girl why Celimus might make her happy.”
Wyl reached for his goblet and took a long draught. In that brief moment he asked Ylena to forgive him what he did. “I cannot, sire,” he said, putting the goblet carefully back in its place.
“I beg your pardon?” It was the King’s turn to be startled.
Valentyna’s gaze landed with weight on Wyl’s profile. He felt the side of his face burn with its intensity and he felt his heart hammering with desire. It made his breath shorten and he felt suddenly lightheaded.
Was it possible to fall in love with someone so instantaneously? His mother had believed so. She had told him as much, smiling every time she recounted to Wyl of her first meeting with Fergys Thirsk.
“I was so young, Wyl. Not quite sixteen—” she would begin.
“My three sisters and I had heard such tales of King Magnus—we knew he was tall and dashing with golden locks. We could hardly contain our agitation for the two days leading up to his visit. And the food! We roasted an ox in his honor but there were also delicate fish dishes and meats, pigeon and duck.
On and on the list went, Wyl. I thought the kitchen would explode from all the hysterical activity.” And then she would sigh. “All of us girls wanted to attend the King, but Mother said it was appropriate that I do so, as youngest. We didn’t know, of course, that he was courting Adana by then. I think we all had starry-eyed hopes of Magnus taking one look at any one of us, falling hopelessly in love, and making her his Queen.” She would say this dramatically and Wyl would always laugh.
“And now to Father,” he would say, eyes shining, knowing what was coming.
“Yes, to Fergys,” she would reply. “When the royal party arrived on that bright afternoon in summer we were only permitted to watch from a distance. We could see the stories were true, though: Magnus was every bit the handsome King. That evening we dressed in all our finery and we were presented to the royal party. When my name was announced, I was so nervous that I caught my foot in the lining of my gown and stumbled.”
“It wasn’t the King who caught you, though!” Wyl would chime in.
Helyna would smile indulgently. “No. When I gathered my wits sufficiently to look up and thank him. it was not the King I saw but his stocky, red-headed General, a man with genial eyes and a smile that lit my world.”
“And you knew, didn’t you, Mother?” Wyl would say at the end of the story.
“Yes, son, I knew. This was the man I would marry. My heart was already his at the first gentle sound of his lovely voice and his shy smile.”
Wyl came out of his thoughts and realized there had been an awkward silence while King Valor and Princess Valentyna awaited his response. If his mother could fall instantly and helplessly in love with his father, then why could not he with Valentyna? She was an impossible dream but one he would permit himself.
Wyl took a steadying breath, looked first toward Valor and then at his daughter, both waiting expectantly. And he found the courage.
“He is no match for you, Valentyna.” He turned to the King with an expression of deep regret. “I’m so sorry, sire, I came here today to win your daughter’s hand in marriage for King Celimus but, having met her, I realize such a union would be a grave mistake.”
Wyl blinked into the initial shocked silence before being brave enough to return Valentyna’s grateful and just a little bemused gaze. Valor began to splutter his surprise.
Chapter 13
The Briavellian guards died swiftly. The attack, as violent as it was unexpected, was over as quickly as it was begun and the mercenaries were adept at killing silently. Celimus was playing a slippery game. While Romen thought he was spearheading this band of soldiers, another of them—a man called Arkol—with a ransom on his head and little else to lose from murdering more people had agreed to run a killing raid.
Promised immunity from those who hunted him, as well as an irresistible sum of money, this killer had bigger prey on his mind than General Wyl Thirsk. His orders were to murder the King of Briavel.
Celimus’s evil mind had concocted a plan to leap all the obstacles in the way of his getting precisely what he wanted. Having met the man, he judged that Koreldy would not agree to assassinate a King for little other reason than he might not agree to marrying off his daughter. Arkol lacked even fundamental scruples, it seemed, and Celimus noted this immediately, deciding he was definitely the person for his third tier of the mission.
His threefold aim was this. First he would use Thirsk to open doors in Briavel. Celimus felt convinced that Wyl’s name would win the audience, and get his men into Briavel without suspicion. He also rather hoped Wyl might win Valentyna’s hand for him—not that he cared either way. Marriage was not to his liking but it was necessary—and it was essential with this supposedly plump and fragile Princess of Briavel.
With or without Wyl Thirsk. he would get his way with marriage—of this Celimus was sure. But the second aim of the mission was to ensure Thirsk was off Morgravian soil when he was killed. It was just such a neat plot to use Romen Koreldy to rid Celimus of the annoying presence of Wyl Thirsk—once his task was done in winning Valor’s trust, that is.
And finally, his favorite of all the intertwined plots was the slaying of his neighboring King. If he could he would lay that peacetime atrocity at Thirsk’s feet, further damaging the family name. However, his main achievement would be to dispense with any necessity to deal with Valor. If the Princess did not submit immediately to his demands to marry and thus join the two realms once and for all, then he would bring the full might of Morgravia crashing down upon her inexperienced and no doubt hysterical shoulders. He would take Briavel by force and he would see to it that she died in the process.
In killing Thirsk and Valor he believed he could lay open a path of hopelessness and indeed helplessness for the young Princess of Briavel. Without her father she would be nothing but a whimpering, spoiled Princess. And staying married to her—even if she did agree—was only ever a temporary situation; an immediate way to satisfy his burning desire to straddle the two realms. Celimus had full intention to rid himself of the cumbersome wife after a couple of years, perhaps by which time he might have sired an heir to genuinely sit upon a single throne ruling both Morgravia and Briavel. The irony of its comparison to his own parents’ marriage and siring of an heir was not lost on him.
He loved the way his own mind worked. Killing Thirsk among it all was his master stroke. Being able to bring the Legion entirely under his own command was his dream. And then why stop at Briavel? With both realms under his rule, he could look to other, weaker kingdoms. Celimus already saw himself—in his daydreams—as some sort of Emperor in the making. It would mean disposing of the self-proclaimed King of the Mountains, of course, but for some reason this did not impact Celimus as being particularly troublesome. Oh, he had listened to his father flap his gums about the threat from the north but the barbarian’s capacity was unknown in truth. How could he possibly put together a raggle-taggle fighting unit that could even begin to match the well-drilled prowess of the Morgravian Legion? Celimus had from early adolescence entertained himself with notions of empire that had eluded his father—the seeds of which had been planted by Adana in the bright youngster’s mind. Magnus, he thought, sneering in a way his mother would be proud of had only ever wanted to keep Morgravia safe. It had never occurred to the old fool to look beyond her borders. Why not take Briavel? Take the north?