The Pagan's Prize (2 page)

"You will surely soil your slippers and the hem of
your gown, fair one," warned the eunuch, his voice effeminately high and
nasal. He signaled for the four bearers supporting the drapery-shrouded litter
to follow as he hastened to catch up with her. "It grows dark and the
ground is muddy from recent rains . . . you could slip and fall, perhaps injure
yourself. Certainly you would not wish that to happen only a fortnight from
your wedding day."

"Since when have you or your mistress ever been
concerned about my welfare?" Zora muttered, pretending not to hear him.
And why the sudden invitation to join Hermione in her tent? Zora could count on
one hand the number of times she and her half sister had exchanged words since
they left Tmutorokan weeks ago, which was no different than the icy distance
they had maintained in the
terem
, the
women's quarters of their father Prince Mstislav's palace.

Skirting murky puddles and quagmires of mud, Zora
proceeded undaunted through the torchlit maze of striped tents toward the
largest one erected at the very heart of camp.

Her own tent was always pitched on the edge, another
not so subtle jab on Hermione's part to ensure that Zora never forgot her place
as a bastard daughter. But Zora didn't mind. She liked being apart from the
hubbub created by countless slaves, eunuchs, and guards who made up the bulk of
this ponderous caravan. The number of retainers required by two Rus princesses,
several concubines, and the wives and children of Prince Mstislav's highest
officials was astonishing.

Yet she did mind abandoning the deliciously fragrant
supper of spit-roasted pheasant her cook had prepared for her. Zora's stomach
was growling irritably.

She had been tempted to refuse the unexpected
invitation, but why incite Hermione's anger? Soon they would be separated. In a
little less than a week they would arrive at Chernigov, their father's new
capital city, and within another week Zora would marry and become the mistress
of her own household. No longer would she have to endure Hermione's imperious
slights and petty jealousies, for they would rarely see each other except for
court functions. That arrangement would suit Zora perfectly.

"Allow me to announce your arrival, beauteous one,"
Phineas insisted, overtaking her just as she reached the guarded entrance to
Hermione's tent.

Noting his labored breathing and mud-splattered tunic, Zora
felt a small ripple of satisfaction. She had always disliked this eunuch's
smooth and haughty ways, which so mirrored those of his mistress. It pleased
her to have upset his composure, even a little.

"If you wish."

As the guards pulled aside the flaps, Zora followed
Phineas through a small antechamber and then into the sumptuous interior, which
was flooded with golden light from shining copper lanterns and wax candles as
thick as a man's arm.

"My mistress, Princess Zora has come."

"Thank you, Phineas. You may leave us."

The eunuch bowed deeply and retired from the tent,
leaving Zora standing alone just inside the entrance. Her gaze settled upon the
lovely young woman ensconced upon a cushioned divan, dressed in amber silk, her
smooth dark hair pulled back and coiled on either side of her head in the Byzantine
fashion, the tight spirals interlaced with shimmering strands of pearls. Zora's
own thick hair had never accepted such a style and she fingered a long, unruly
strand as she waited.

"How gracious of you to accept my invitation, dear
sister," said Hermione in a silky yet cordial tone. She gracefully waved a
marble white hand at another divan placed opposite from her own. "Please.
Come and sit."

Lifting her chin, Zora coolly approached. Her life
would have been truly miserable at the hands of this intimidating half-Greek
princess if their father had not accepted Zora into his family. Bastards
without paternal acknowledgment counted for little in Rus. But Prince Mstislav's
enduring favor and fatherly affection had given her courage, and instead of
growing into womanhood cowed and meek, she carried herself with pride and met
any insult with determined defiance.

"Have you eaten?" Hermione inquired as Zora
took the seat offered to her.

"I have supper waiting for me at my tent,"
she replied, giving her half sister a pointed hint that she did not intend to
linger.

"Oh, but you must be hungry." Hermione
clapped her hands before Zora could object, and a moment later female slaves
appeared from a side entrance bearing trays laden with food and drink. "I
haven't eaten either," she said as the ivory-inlaid table between them was
quickly set with plates of chased silver, savory dishes were uncovered, and
enameled goblets filled with vermilion wine. "Join me."

Annoyed by her sister's presumption, Zora reluctantly
accepted a brimming goblet from a slave and watched as Hermione dipped her
silver spoon into a steaming lamb stew laced with leeks and tiny onions.
Stubbornly resisting her gnawing hunger, Zora took a healthy sip of wine to
ease the hollow pangs in her stomach.

"Umm, it's wonderful." Hermione pushed the
bowl of stew toward her. "You must try some."

"I'd rather wait, thank you," Zora said
firmly, although her mouth watered at the wonderful aroma of fresh-baked honey
and poppy seed bread. "Perhaps if you told me why you invited me here, I
could return to my tent. It's been a long day and we have to rise early
tomorrow."

Sighing resignedly, Hermione set down her spoon and
regarded Zora with stunning cobalt-blue eyes, their only shared feature other
than their like age of seventeen years.

"I suppose I'm to blame for your hostility toward
me, my sister, but I hope that after tonight we'll begin to find more pleasure
in each other's company. I invited you because I never congratulated you upon
your betrothal to Lord Ivan. I would like to make amends for that oversight . .
. and my callous mistreatment of you in the past, and present you with a gift."

Zora blinked, incredulous.

"I know this comes as a surprise, but I've been
thinking that since you and I will be separated soon by your marriage, it doesn't
seem right that we should part as enemies. We're starting new lives in
Chernigov. Father wouldn't have summoned us to his new court if he wasn't
certain of his ability to wrest the Rus throne from Grand Prince Yaroslav. So in
honor of Father's approaching victory, I think we should reconcile our, shall
we say, differences, and start afresh."

Thoroughly stunned, Zora stared at her half sister. Did
Hermione really believe that years of insults and unkindnesses could be so easily
forgiven and forgotten? It had been
Hermione's
bitter resentment that had first driven the ugly wedge between them.

As the silence lengthened, Hermione arched a slim dark
brow. "Have you nothing to say? I hoped my words would have pleased you."

"Pleased me?" Zora asked, finding her voice
at last. "No, I'm merely puzzled. You speak of reconciliation, yet my tent
remains on the outskirts of camp almost to the forest—"

"The slave manager's oversight, I can only suppose
through force of habit," Hermione broke in, dismissing the comment with a
wave of her hand. "But it won't happen again, I promise you. Tomorrow
night your tent will be pitched next to mine." She lifted her goblet in
salute. "I drink to your coming marriage, my sister. Receiving news of
your betrothal to Lord Ivan must have brought you great joy. He's handsome,
wealthy, a landed boyar, and a member of Father's senior
druzhina
. Fortune has indeed smiled upon you."

Although highly skeptical of her half sister's
sincerity, Zora joined in the toast. She was content with Prince Mstislav's
choice for her husband.

True, she didn't love Ivan—and his arrogant, imperious
ways sometimes grated upon her—but she had agreed to the match knowing it would
please her father. She could do no less for the honored place he had given her
within his household, even though she was born out of Christian wedlock to a
Slavic concubine.

Yet it was strange that she would be the first to wed,
Zora thought, licking the tangy wine from her lips as she lowered her goblet.
Lady Canace, Hermione's Greek mother, would never have allowed such a thing if
she were still alive. After all, Hermione was older by a few months and a
trueborn princess. Zora imagined that Prince Mstislav must have someone else in
mind for his eldest daughter, most likely some foreign monarch's son who would
befit her status.

"And now for my gift." Hermione's eyes were
curiously alight as she again clapped her hands. Two slave women hastened to a
great carved chest and while one held open the lid, the other withdrew a large
oblong bundle wrapped in gray linen.

Despite herself, Zora felt excitement flare as the
slave knelt before her and placed the heavy bundle in her lap. She glanced up
at Hermione, whose smile seemed fixed upon her face.

"Open it, dear sister."

Taking a small knife from the table, Zora slit the
twine binding the linen and hastily unwrapped her present. Her breath caught as
a bolt of iridescent cream silk was revealed, the thin, tissuelike material
striated with sparkling threads of gold.

"It—it's beautiful," she murmured, astonished
that Hermione would give her anything, especially a gift so fine.

"For your wedding gown. Do you remember those
Byzantine fabric merchants who visited our camp last week?"

Zora nodded. She draped a glittering length over her
arm, the fabric feeling wonderfully cool against her skin.

"I bought the entire bolt for you. I knew the
moment I saw it that the color would accent your tawny hair and golden skin to
perfection."

For the first time since Hermione had said she wanted
to make amends, Zora dared to believe that she might have meant it. She met her
half sister's gaze, and although it felt strange to do so, she smiled at her,
her gratitude heartfelt.

"Thank you, Hermione. I'll wear it proudly."

"I know you will." Hermione took a long sip
of wine, then set her goblet upon the table. Delicately dipping her spoon into
a silver bowl filled with glistening black salmon roe, she added, "The
food grows cold. Dine with me."

"If you don't mind, I still wish to retire,"
Zora murmured, rewrapping the bolt of silk. Indeed, she did feel tired, her
eyelids strangely heavy. "As you said, this has come as a great surprise.
I need time to think—"

"I understand," Hermione interrupted, wiping
her full, red mouth with an embroidered napkin. She rose with Zora, calling, "Phineas?"

The eunuch must have been waiting in the antechamber,
for he appeared as if in an instant.

"Princess Zora would like to return to her tent.
Will you escort her?"

"Of course, mistress, the litter is waiting
outside."

"I'd rather walk." Zora wondered why her legs
felt so sluggish as her taller half sister led Zora to the entrance. She hadn't
drunk much wine, but her weariness seemed to have quickened its effect.

"Walking will not be possible, fair one,"
said Phineas. He cast a covert glance over her head at Hermione. "The rain
has begun again."

"Yes, you wouldn't want that lovely silk to be
ruined, Zora, and you do look exhausted. Please take my litter."

"Very well," she said, suddenly feeling
disinclined to argue. Clasping her gift to her breasts, she turned to Hermione.
"Good night . . . and thank you."

Hermione's tight smile did not reach her eyes. "Good
night, dearest sister."

As Zora entered the antechamber, she stumbled, but
Phineas caught her arm, preventing her fall.

"I don't know why I'm so tired," she said as
he helped her into the litter that was drawn right up to the tent.

"The journey from Tmutorokan has been a long and
taxing one, Princess," he said smoothly, closing the heavy curtains to
leave her in darkness. "Do not trouble yourself. Rest."

Zora obliged him by sinking gratefully against the
plush cushions, but when the litter was hoisted into the air she was assailed
by a wave of nauseating dizziness.

"Phineas?"

Her weak cry went unanswered. Outside she heard the
bearers' sandals squelching in the mud and rain beating upon the litter's
canvas roof, but not a sound from the chief eunuch.

Mother of Christ,
what could be wrong with her?
she wondered dazedly. Every pitch and sway of
the litter heightened her sense of light-headedness. Her tongue felt thick and
as dry as wool, and try as she might, she could barely open her eyes.

Overwhelmed by a terrible drowning sensation as her
body sank deeper into the cushions, Zora could swear that they should have
arrived at her tent by now, but the slaves kept on walking. Where were they
taking her? Was it possible she had lost track of time and they had not yet
reached the camp's outskirts?

Suddenly the litter pitched to one side as if a slave
had tripped and lost his footing, then it felt like the world dropped from
beneath her. The conveyance hit the ground with a jarring thud. Through the
cold numbness enveloping her body she heard sounds of struggle—and muted
screams?—then Phineas's ragged whisper.

"Grab her and be gone! And I warn you, tell your
master Gleb not to forget his sworn agreement. This concubine's tongue is to be
cut out, and she's not to be sold until you reach Constantinople! My mistress
has paid much gold to ensure that her wishes are met. Tell Gleb if they are
not, she will gladly spend a thousand times more to have him found and
punished."

Zora moaned in horrified disbelief. She'd been caught
in a treacherous web. She gasped as the curtains were torn aside and rough
hands wrenched her from the litter. But it was so dark she could not see her
assailants' faces. Nor could she move her limbs to escape them.

"No, please . . . my wedding gown," she
whimpered almost incoherently, glimpsing the cream silk lying like a bright
beacon upon the muddy ground.