“Aindreas! That’s enough!”
Ioanna was glaring at her husband, her cheeks as red as if she had been slapped. All other conversations in the hall had ceased and everyone who remained, even those at the lesser tables, was staring at the two dukes.
Kentigern, who had winced at the sound of his wife’s voice, now turned toward the duchess.
“Look at yourself,” she said. She glanced at the other tables and exhaled through her teeth. “Look at yourself,” she repeated, her voice lower, but her tone no less severe. “Drunk as a soldier at the Revel, and insulting our guest. Insulting your future king!”
“We’re jus’ talking, my dear. Tha’s all. Javan knows tha’.”
“My deepest apologies, my Lord Duke,” Ioanna said, looking past Aindreas to Javan. “At times my husband forgets that he can’t drink the way he once did. The mind is always the first thing to age, but the last to mature.”
Javan smiled at the adage, which was as old as the castle in which they sat.
“It’s all right, my lady. As Aindreas said, we were just talking. I took no offense.”
A lie, but a gracious one.
“You’re too kind, my lord,” she said, casting another withering look at her husband.
Kentigern did not seem to notice. His attention was elsewhere, although belatedly so.
“Where’s Brienne?” He sat up straighter and shot a look at Javan. “Where did tha’ boy of yours take her?”
Graciousness had its place, but enough was enough. He leveled a finger at Aindreas and opened his mouth, though he still wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Mercifully, Fotir answered before he could speak.
“They left a short while ago, my lord, saying something about a walk through the ward and gardens.”
Javan didn’t believe a word of it. No one snuck off with a flask of wine simply to take a walk. But once more he was thankful for the minister’s quick mind.
“A walk, eh?” Aindreas said, sounding doubtful as well.
“Let it be, Aindreas,” Ioanna said. “We brought them together to build the foundation for a marriage. Let them have their romance.”
“Romance? They’re children!”
The duchess smiled. “She’s six turns older than I was the first time we met. And you remember the walk we took, don’t you?”
Aindreas’s face turned the color of the wine. “If you’re tryin’ t’ put my mind a’ ease, you’re doin’ a damned poor job of it.”
“When have I ever tried to ease your mind?” she asked, glancing mischievously at Javan.
The others at the table laughed, and after a moment Aindreas joined in. It clearly took an effort, however.
“You’re lucky you’ve only th’ one boy, Javan,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. “A father can’ help but worry about his girls.”
“Don’t you worry about Ennis?” Ioanna asked, raising an eyebrow.
Aindreas shook his head. “It’s not th’ same. My girls …” He stopped, shaking his head again. “Well, let me put i’ this way: how much trouble can a boy get in? Right, Javan?”
Javan smiled weakly and made himself nod. Yet, even as he did, he found his gaze wandering to Xaver MarCullet. The sleeve of the boy’s shirt hid the dark, angry scar that ran across his arm, but Javan could see it in his mind, an answer to Aindreas’s question.
How much trouble, indeed.
Had Brienne not been leading the way, he would surely have gotten lost already. Perhaps it was all the wine he had drunk at dinner, but
Tavis was finding it difficult to follow the twists and turns of Kentigern Castle’s passageways. He felt as though they had been walking for an eternity and still none of it looked familiar.
She was holding his hand, her skin smooth and warm, and now he halted, forcing her to stop as well. Her cheeks were flushed and she was just slightly out of breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, feeling a bit breathless himself.
She looked down for an instant, but then met his gaze again. “To your chamber.”
He felt his heart begin to race. His hands were shaking. “But this isn’t the way I came before dinner.”
“No, it’s not,” she said, a conspiring smile on her lips. “That route would take us past too many of Father’s guards.”
Tavis grinned. “So are you just seeing to it that I find my way back to my bed, or did you have more in mind?”
Her color deepened, but still her eyes held his. They stood like that for a moment, staring at each other, utterly still. Then, as if performing a dance they had rehearsed a thousand times before, they each took a step forward, put their arms around each other, and kissed.
Her breath tasted of wine and her hair smelled of honey and wild flowers. Her body seemed to melt against his. Tavis could feel his heart hammering like a siege engine against his chest. His one free hand was pressed against her back, covered by silken threads of golden hair. He still held the wine in his other hand, and he almost threw it to the floor now so that he could unfasten the small, gold buttons that ran down the front of her dress.
Instead, he pulled away. “My quarters?” he whispered breathlessly, barely able to make himself heard.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him again. An instant later, however, she pulled back from him. “But know this, my lord,” she said, breathless as well. “Though I am yours, promised by my father, and bound now by my own heart, you will not bed me tonight. I’ll share kisses with you.” She hesitated, smiling shyly. “And perhaps somewhat more. But as to the rest …” She shook her head. “That will wait until the night of our wedding.”
Perhaps he should have been angry. Perhaps in some small way he was. But he also understood. She was not a serving girl in a tavern
or some such commoner. She was a noblewoman; she was to be his queen. He longed to lie with her. No doubt he would dream of it this night. If he wished to make this match work, though—and he did, more than anything he had ever wanted before—he knew now that he would have to accede to her wishes.
“Of course, my lady,” he said. “If that’s your desire, it’s mine as well.”
Brienne grinned. “Really?”
He had to laugh. “Well, maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’ll abide by your wishes. You have my word, your honor will be safe with me.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, favoring him with a dazzling smile.
They kissed again, and Tavis wondered if he had the strength to keep the promise he had just made.
“How much further to my quarters?” he asked, whispering the words into her hair.
“Not far. But first, some wine.”
It was his turn to grin. “You make it difficult for a man, my lady.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, taking the wine from his hand and drinking deeply.
She handed it back to him and he drank as well. Then she took his hand again and led him on through the corridors.
They hadn’t far to go, but still they stopped several times more to kiss and drink and laugh, all the while urging each other to stay quiet so that they wouldn’t be heard by Kentigern’s guards. When finally they reached his chamber, they pushed open the door and stumbled forward onto the bed, nearly dropping the wine. There were no candles lit, but light from the moons spilled across the stone floor.
“The door,” she said, lying on her back, her eyes closed. “Lock the door.”
Tavis pushed himself up and made his way unsteadily back to the door. His head was spinning and abruptly he felt quite sleepy. He looked down at the flask, which was still half full. Maybe he had drunk more at dinner than he thought. Or maybe the day’s journey and the night’s festivities had finally caught up with him.
He locked the door and returned to the bed, putting the flask on the floor before lying down next to Brienne. Her eyes were still closed and her breathing had slowed.
“No fair falling asleep,” he said, kissing her.
She returned the kiss, her eyes fluttering open for just an instant.
After a minute or two, Tavis moved his lips to the side of her neck, and then her throat, and then the top of her bodice. At the same time he began to unbutton her dress. Or at least he tried. He had to fumble with the buttons for several moments before he even succeeded in getting one of them undone. The buttons were small, and his fingers did not seem to be functioning as well as they had before his first glass of wine.
Brienne let out a soft sigh as he continued to kiss her, and she shifted slightly, making it easier for him to reach her dress. She certainly offered no objection to what his hands were doing, and so he didn’t stop.
After what seemed an eternity, he finally managed to unfasten her dress all the way to her waist. He spread the dress open and gently kissed one of her breasts. Once more her eyes fluttered open for just an instant, but otherwise she offered no response. It took him a moment to realize that she had fallen asleep.
“Brienne,” he whispered.
She didn’t stir.
“Brienne.” Louder this time.
Still nothing.
He kissed her on the lips, but she didn’t kiss him back. He lifted his head and looked at her. Her golden hair flowing like a river over the pillow, her skin illuminated by Panya and Ilias, her breasts, full and soft, laid bare for him. He touched one of them, then the other. She was his, if he wanted her. Asleep, drunk, half naked.
He closed his eyes and lay down next to her. He would never have done such a thing. Besides, he was as tired as she, perhaps more so. He had spent much of the day riding. He needed to sleep. Just for a while. Just until dawn. Then he’d wake her and walk her back to her chamber. He had sworn that he would guard her honor, which not only meant controlling his own passion, but also keeping her reputation from harm. It was a promise he intended to keep. She was to be his queen; she deserved no less.
Later, after he slept.
O
n most nights, Fotir had no trouble getting the duke of Curgh back to his quarters at a reasonable hour. The duke had never been one to lose himself in conversation; social occasions were more a burden for him than a pleasure, just as they were for Fotir. Moreover, because Javan was a duke, few ever tried to prolong their discussions with him once he had made it clear that he wished to be done.
In this case, however, the evening had dragged on far beyond what Fotir felt was necessary. They had ridden much of the day, and had been journeying for the better part of the waxing. They needed rest. Judging from the frown that had been creeping onto the duke’s face for the past hour or more it seemed clear to the Qirsi minister that Javan felt the same way.
But just as Curgh’s duke was used to having people leave him alone when he grew tired of their company, the duke of Kentigern was accustomed to having people listen to him prattle on for as long as he wished. Add to that the fact that Aindreas was drunk, and there was little Fotir could do to end the evening. Ever since Javan and Aindreas’s awkward exchange regarding the posting of the King’s Guard on the Tarbin, the duchess of Kentigern and Shurik, Aindreas’s first minister, had been trying to convince the duke to return to his quarters and sleep. Instead, Kentigern had called for more wine and taken their conversation in a new direction. He could barely speak anymore; Fotir doubted that Javan even knew what they were discussing. But that didn’t seem to matter.
“Aindreas, we must let our guest sleep,” the duchess said, trying once more.
“If you’re tired, wife, go t’ bed. I’ll be along.” He looked at Javan again. “’S jus’ as well tha’ Shonah didn’ come with you, Javan. Two of them would be impossible.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, you oaf!” The hall was empty now, save for a few servants and those sitting at the main table, and apparently Ioanna didn’t care anymore if they heard her chastise her husband. “Javan and his company have come a long way. They need to sleep.”
“Nonsense! Javan’s fine! Jus’ ask him.”
“Actually, my friend,” the duke said, taking this opportunity to stand and stretch his legs, “I could use some rest. It’s been a long day. And we’ll have plenty of time to speak further during the next few days.”
Aindreas shook his head and laughed. “You’re gettin’ soft, Javan. Old and soft.”
Javan clenched his jaw, his face shading toward crimson.
“Easy, my lord,” Fotir said under his breath. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He hasn’t for half the night.”
Javan exhaled slowly and then nodded.
Two of Aindreas’s servants helped the large duke to his feet and began to lead him off the dais and out of the hall.
Ioanna watched her husband leave before facing Javan. “My apologies, my lord,” she said. She looked tired and pale, though she managed a rueful smile. “It’s not easy for him seeing Brienne grown and ready for marriage, even with the wedding still a few years off. I believe he feels old.”
Javan offered a smile that seemed sincere. “There’s no need to apologize, my lady. Perhaps your husband is right. It may be more difficult with daughters than it is with sons. I won’t presume to judge him.”
“My lord is most kind,” the duchess said, inclining her head slightly. “He will make a gracious king.” Then she grinned. “Though only if he gets some sleep.”
The duke laughed. “Quite true.”
“This way, my lord,” Ioanna said, starting toward the small set of stairs that led off the dais. “I’ll have someone escort you and your company to your quarters.”
“My pardon, my lady.”
“Yes, Shurik,” Ioanna said, as the rest of them stopped to look at the first minister as well.
The Qirsi gestured toward Fotir. “I was going to ask my colleague to join me for a journey into the city, but I wouldn’t presume to do so without your leave and that of his duke.”
“I have no objection,” the duchess said. She looked at Javan. “My lord?”
The duke shook his head. “Nor do I.”
Shurik smiled at Fotir. “What do you say, cousin?”
Fotir hesitated. He was weary as well, and he had matters to which to attend before he could retire for the night. But he didn’t wish to be rude, nor did he feel that he could refuse an opportunity to speak with Kentigern’s first minister.
“Very well,” he said.
Shurik smiled. “Splendid.”
Ioanna, Javan and the others started to leave.
“Master MarCullet!” Fotir called. “A word please.”
This time, Ioanna did not stop, nor did Javan. Xaver did, however, and he regarded Fotir doubtfully as the minister approached him.
“Yes, First Minister?”
Fotir said nothing until he had stopped just in front of the boy. “I had hoped to speak with Lord Tavis before sleeping,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Now it seems I may be another hour or two with Aindreas’s Qirsi. Can I trust you to check on him for me?”
“I had planned to anyway,” Xaver admitted.
Fotir offered a small smile. “So I guessed.” Clearly the boy still didn’t trust him, despite the assurances he had offered earlier that day, as they entered the city.
For several moments Xaver said nothing, his eyes fixed on Fotir’s face, as if he could divine the Qirsi’s thoughts if he but looked hard enough.
“I’ve told you, Master MarCullet, you have nothing to fear from me. But that’s not to say you have nothing to fear. We’re close to Aneira and now that the duke and your friend are in line for the throne, we can’t be too careful. This is no time for you to be imagining enemies in your own court.”
“You’re contradicting yourself, First Minister, telling me in one breath to use caution and in the next to put my suspicions of you aside. Which would you have me do?”
The boy had a point, but Fotir didn’t have time just then to argue the matter. “Both,” the minister said, his voice hardening.
Xaver continued to stare at him for several moments more. Finally, he let out a sigh. “What do you want me to say to him?”
“Nothing at all. Just find out where he’s been and make certain that he’s safe.” Again he hesitated, but only briefly. “And that he hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble.”
That, of all things, drew a wry smile from the boy. “All right,” he said. “Good night, First Minister.”
“Good night, Master MarCullet. Thank you.”
The boy hurried out of the hall, leaving Fotir alone with Kentigern’s minister, who still stood on the dais.
“Is everything all right?” the man asked.
“Yes, fine.”
Shurik came down the small steps and gestured for Fotir to follow him through another doorway leading out of the hall. “I’m glad you agreed to join me,” he said, as Fotir fell in stride beside him. “It seems our lords are determined to forge a stronger alliance between the two houses. We serve them best if we can work together as well.”
Fotir nodded. “I agree.”
Shurik glanced over at him. He was grinning again. “Good! I’d heard from some that you’re not an easy man, Fotir. Many of my Qirsi friends tell me that you prefer the company of Eandi men and women to that of your own kind.”
“I don’t believe that’s true. Some of my friends have yellow eyes; some don’t. I have nothing against other Qirsi. But I’ve noticed that many of our people are resentful of me, because I refuse to hate Ean’s children.”
The other man nodded. “I understand. You’ll find that here in Kentigern as well.”
They fell silent for a short time, as Shurik led them out of the inner ward of the castle and toward the gate closest to the city. Fotir glanced at the man briefly, wondering if Shurik was waiting for him to speak, but the minister seemed content simply to walk. He was slight and tall, much like Fotir himself. He wore his white hair loose and long, which at first glance gave him a youthful appearance. His face, however, was narrow and long, with high prominent cheekbones and deep-set, pale eyes. The combination gave the minister an aspect of youthful ill-health that seemed to Fotir to be all too common among his people.
“Where are we going?” Fotir asked at last, breaking a lengthy silence.
“To a tavern in the city, a place called the Silver Bear.” Shurik looked at Fotir once more and the two men shared a smile. “It seemed an appropriate place for the Qirsi minister of Curgh.”
The Silver Bear was no different from any other Qirsi establishment Fotir had visited. It was filled with the sweet, musty smells of ale and burning pipeweed. Late as it was, the tavern was still crowded and loud, much the way Curgh’s Silver Gull might be during the Revel. No doubt their visit had much to do with that. It wasn’t every day that travelers from another of the major houses came to Kentigern, much less one of Javan’s importance. Not surprisingly, most of the people in the tavern were Qirsi, although Fotir did see a few Eandi men and women scattered through the room.
The barkeep, a tall Qirsi man who was unusually brawny for one of Fotir’s people, waved to Shurik as they walked in. He eyed Fotir briefly before offering a simple nod, which the minister returned.
“I’ve a table in one of the back rooms,” Shurik said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “We should have some privacy back there.”
Fotir nodded and indicated with an open hand that Shurik should lead the way.
The two of them wove through the throng to a small chamber off the farthest corner of the main room. Closing the door against the noise, Shurik gestured to a chair at one of the room’s two round tables.
“Please sit,” he said. “Someone will be in shortly with ale and pipeweed.”
“I don’t smoke.”
The Kentigern minister frowned. “A pity. This is a special blend. It comes from Uulrann.”
Fotir raised an eyebrow. The growers of Uulrann were said to produce the finest smoking leaf in all the Forelands, but little of it ever found its way into any of the other kingdoms. Indeed, the same could be said of the blades forged by Uulrann’s smiths, the mead made by its brewmasters, and the spices grown by its farmers. All were coveted by the merchants of the other kingdoms. Sometimes inferior products from other lands were falsely sold as exports from Uulrann. But just as the suzerain kept his court and his armies from
becoming entangled in the alliances and rivalries of the other kingdoms, so he kept his merchants from participating in the commerce of the Forelands. It had been this way for centuries, though Fotir had never heard a convincing explanation for why this was so. It was true that Uulrann was surrounded by mountains and the ocean, and bordered by its fiercest enemies, Braedon and Aneira. But among the other kingdoms, trade thrived even between the most bitter rivals. Eibithar traded with Aneira, as did Caerisse. All of them traded with Braedon. “Kings must have their wars,” an old saying went, “and merchants must have their gold.” But apparently, like everything else, this saying stopped at the foothills of the Basak Range.
“Uulranni leaf?” Fotir said. “How did they get it?”
Shurik smiled. “An enterprising merchant, no doubt. One who was willing to pay a great deal of gold in anticipation of being able to charge a good deal more. To be honest, I don’t ask.”
A moment later a serving girl walked in—Qirsi, of course—bearing two tankards of dark ale and two pouches of pipeweed.
As she laid the pouches on the table, Shurik pulled a pipe from a small pocket on the front of his doublet.
“You’re sure?” he asked, eyeing Fotir.
He hesitated and the smile returned to Shurik’s pale, narrow face.
“Can you bring a pipe for my friend?” the minister asked the girl. “Tell Tranda it’s for First Minister Shurik.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, bowing before she left.
“You won’t be sorry,” Shurik said. He filled his own pipe, lit a tinder with the candle sitting on the table, and drew the flame into the bowl. Smoke rose to the ceiling like steam from a kettle, the scent of the leaf drifting to Fotir. He had to admit that it smelled fabulous.
“I suppose I should apologize for Lord Kentigern’s behavior,” Shurik said abruptly.
“I believe the duchess saw to that quite gracefully. No further apology is needed.” Fotir thought the minister’s comment curious. Usually a minister wouldn’t say such a thing unless expressly told to do so. Aindreas had been in no condition to give such an order, but perhaps the duchess had.
The serving girl returned with a pipe for Fotir. He quickly filled it and lit the leaf, grateful for the distraction. It had been years since
he had smoked a pipe and in that moment he realized how much he had missed it. The pipeweed was as flavorful as it was fragrant. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sweet taste of the smoke.
“You must think the duke ill-mannered,” Shurik went on, when they were alone again. “I would, were I in your position.”
He did, of course, but he was unwilling to give voice to his feelings. Shurik had put him in an awkward position, and Fotir could not tell if that had been his intention.