ALTHER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Fifty thousand marks?” Alther repeated the amount to emphasize its absurdity. He felt his face contorting to an uncharacteristic expression of indignation.

“It is a deposit,” Crella explained as if to a child, “covering the first of five years’ service for three such ladies.”

How it was that she remained most enticing when she was at her most cavalier he did not know, but each time he pondered it, he could not escape recalling his first glimpse of her.

Crella was the object of raunchy jokes among Rivervalian boys. The Adeltian Tart, they called her, not yet ripened but already with a babe. Her bedchamber was a royal bordello, they said, and for a few silvers anyone could be prince for a night. The girl Alther had expected to meet on his trip to Adeltia was a younger version of any of the whores that worked the docks along the Eos: a loose-fitting dress, messy hair, crooked teeth, and a desperate smile devoid of all dignity. What he had actually seen was the opposite entirely. Her form-fitting bodice betrayed her slender curves, a modest bosom balanced by a delicate waist. Her hair was a perfect waterfall of loose golden curls, and the prideful look of derision she gave him let him know that it made no difference if he had all the silver in the realm—he could never hope to have her.

“And I will be quick to relieve the old crones currently under my employ,” she continued, “once their replacements have proven themselves.”

Alther trailed his wife as she went from one piece of furniture to the next, seemingly determined to rearrange every object in their home. So little had changed, it seemed, since he’d first seen her. In spite of their marriage and the child they’d had, to her, he was still the lustful boy chasing after the unattainable princess.

“That does not lessen the amount. You will speak with Cassen, explain your lack of need for the services, and apologize for the miscommunication.” This time she goes too far. God of the Mountain, give me strength not to act in anger.

“I will do no such thing.” Crella turned to face him, fastidious in her rebuke. “How dare you even suggest it? The wife of the heir to the throne and future queen will not be seen groveling to some lowborn upstart. Most certainly not one of Cassen’s persuasions.”

“Then take care that no one sees it.” Alther could feel the tension in his jaw building, his teeth threatening to shatter. He had not yet revealed to Crella the king’s order that they change their place of residence, but Alther anticipated her response. They could not disobey the king, but Crella would seek every avenue of escape from this reality, and at Alther’s expense. In his desperation, Alther envisioned how his father might handle this situation, then cringed at the thought.

“I refuse to live in squalor. A cobbler’s wife would not put up with such insolent servants nor such an impertinent husband. This residence requires the services of three lady servants, and that is the end of it.” Crella, quite confident in having won the debate, returned to her task of looking busy doing nothing to dismiss her husband.

As she leaned to reach for items on the rear of the sideboard, he was reminded of how often she refused his advances: to the point that he no longer made them. In their near sixteen years of marriage he’d be surprised if they had been intimate so many times. “You reek of your putrid hunt,” she would tell him, months after his last excursion. The dress she now wore may have been the very one he’d first seen her in, she had remained so gracile. And he could have her now if he so chose, tearing fine cloth from flesh. Even the defunct Adeltian law had a version of the Rivervalian Husband’s Right, allowing a man to take that which his wife did not willingly provide. But he had never forced her to do anything she did not wish to, and although today would inevitably be a first in that regard, he resolved only to compel her to do as their king had commanded.

“Aye, this home may require such services, for I believe I spotted a bit of dust gathering on the crystal chandelier… The one in the never-used dining hall.” He allowed her a moment to puzzle over his change in tone, but she only ignored him. “But I am afraid we will not be residing here for much longer.” Alther’s words had in them all the coolness he could muster.

Crella had no interest in playing his game and continued with her faux tidying, muttering something under her breath about the absurdity of having to do a servant’s work. The fragrance wafting from the candles she repositioned was putrid in its strength: a funereal bouquet of flowers, powders, and wax that clung to the lungs—scents she knew he despised. He had told her before how they caused him headaches and sternutation. That she insisted they be placed in the anteroom, making it unavoidable for him not to whiff them upon every arrival, reminded him of her spitefulness.

“We leave for Westport in three days by decree of our king. The arrangements have already been made.” Alther finished the statement and found he was oddly eager to see his wife’s reaction. She did not choose me as husband, but she will obey and acknowledge me as one when presented with no alternative.

He had not predicted her fury.

“You coward,” she turned and yelled. “You dare hide behind your father’s edict like a little boy? You shame us all with your incompetence and above all your impotence!” With her final words she came at him as if to slap him.

Alther’s unassuming nature hid from many his true prowess with that of halberd or sword and shield. He had endured, in his youth, the countless hours of training with real steel expected of Rivervalian nobility—training that would make Adeltian boys shudder at the thought. Alther still had the scars and the skills to show for it, though neither served him much purpose with his current surroundings. Alther caught his wife’s wrist with one hand and struck her cheek with the back of his other. He immediately regretted not the strike, but the force with which he threw it, fearing it was too much for her delicate frame. His blow, it seemed, was if anything too weak. She screamed and swung her free hand clenched in a fist at his face. He caught her other wrist and attempted to subdue her, yelling in kind. “Stop,” he pleaded, but the moment her struggle finally ceased he felt something crash against the back of his skull.