8

 

Desire

 

“Aewen.” Murial’s quiet summons cut through the morning.

Aewen gave a wry half-smile and stopped moving but did not turn back.

“Time to return, flitling. The household will awaken soon.”

That Murial named her after the tiny birds that flitted from bush to bush in freedom seemed more irony than she could bear. Her life had become a cage. Each day she spent as Raefe of Darksea’s betrothed showed her more clearly how unsuited they were for marriage. Did he see it, too? If he did, he gave no sign.

She could not fault his attentiveness, except that he scoffed at her need for quiet and called her “bookish” because she could read. He also informed her that wandering in nature was no proper occupation for a woman. “Leave that to the commoners.” She understood by his tone that he would not welcome a wife who tended “peasants.”

Aewen looked across the Cobbleford to the other shore just as a fawn emerged from the trees. She put out a hand to silence Murial, and the little creature’s ears flicked. She held her breath. The fawn reached down to drink. Tears stood in her eyes. When its head lifted and the delicate creature vanished into the underbrush, she barely saw it go. How could she bear it? Except for those tournaments and social gatherings he favored, Raefe meant to confine her indoors, away from nature’s beauty.

Murial touched her arm with a gentle hand, and a smile split her weathered face. Her maid seemed more fragile these days. She kept silence more and startled easily. The change in her made Aewen’s heart sink. She wished she could do something to ease Murial’s peace of mind, but could not even save her own, not with the wedding banns soon to be nailed outside the chapel door for all to see. To soothe her maid, Aewen attempted a weak smile that, when they started back, failed entirely.

Upon her return to the castle, garment fittings, discussions of jewelry, and hair stylings soon overtook Aewen. Mother at first included her in the excited discussions of fabrics and flowers and friends but, when she failed to respond, no longer consulted her. Aewen could summon only a lackluster interest in such things, whereas Caerla brought into the conversation all the enthusiasm a mother could want.

Raefe called for Aewen partway through the morning, and her mother, laughing, drove him off until after the midday meal. Mother seemed gay these days, almost as if she herself became a bride once more. Aewen, by contrast, sank deeper into gloom with each passing day.

That afternoon Raefe took Aewen and Caerla riding in his carriage and urged his driver to whip the horses until they bolted down the rutted track. Aewen shrank into a corner of the carriage, which rocked and jostled her so severely she nearly tumbled from the seat. Her white fingers gripped the elk-leather armrest as she fought the urge to vomit. She could not even enjoy the benefit of scenery since the red velvet curtains were drawn against the dust, although it entered anyway. She felt its effects in her stiffened hair and aching eyes. Caerla and Raefe seemed unaffected by these discomforts. When the carriage canted at what seemed an unsafe angle, they laughed out loud. Where Caerla found such an appetite for danger, Aewen did not know.

She was thankful when they arrived home. It took Murial a long time to wash the road dust from her hair and change her into clean garments for the evening meal. Aewen stared at her bed, longing to crawl into its comfort and forget the ordeal she’d just experienced. Soon she would find no refuge in her bed. Mother had explained physical duty to a husband as a distasteful burden she must learn to bear.

Aewen stood still and allowed Murial to fasten her new garments and untangle her hair. Protocol required she present herself in the great hall for the evening’s feast. She might contrive to slip away early, however.

She sat beside Raefe throughout the meal, smiling and commenting whenever politeness required, but for the most part ignoring him. His blue eyes sought hers repeatedly, as if he sensed the distance she placed between them, but she could not, after that frenzied ride today, manage anything more.

“You are quiet tonight.” Raefe refused to be ignored.

At the annoyance on his face, her irritation melted into remorse. The fault was hers. A man should find more of a welcome from his intended bride. Raefe was handsome, but he didn’t attract her. What would it be like to yearn for her bridegroom? The thought made her sigh, but she instantly regretted it. From the way Raefe’s eyes narrowed, the sound gave away more than she intended. “I am weary.” She shifted forward in her chair, and he grasped her wrist with a restraining hand, as if he guessed she meant to flee.

“They’re about to start. If the music pleases you, we’ll invite this troupe of minstrels to play for us at Trillilium.” The name of her future home, seat of Darksea, spoken by her betrothed, should have brought delight to her. She sighed again. How far she was from the bride he would want her to be.

Caerla leaned toward Raefe, her tawny eyes alight, and Aewen saw again her sister’s hidden beauty. “Another sort of entertainment will follow.” Excitement infused her voice. How Caerla could look forward to an evening’s entertainment after the battering in the carriage, Aewen had no idea. She hadn’t lied to Raefe. She could barely keep her eyes open. Still, for his sake she lingered. Minstrels strummed lutes and psalteries while timbrels and finger cymbals lent percussion. There was even a timpani, carried into the minstrel’s galley on the back of a brawny youth with deep brown hair. That particular minstrel struck her as a little strange, although she couldn’t decide why.

King Devlon, seated on Aewen’s other side, glanced across her to his son. “That one bears Kindren blood. They’d better watch the silver.”

“And the women.” Raefe’s laughter sounded course. “He’ll be a half-cast, probably a son of Ellendia.”

Aewen knew the story as well as any Elder maiden. The huntress Ellendia of Sloewood had fallen under the enchantment of a son of Rivenn who found her after she was thrown from her horse in the canyonlands. The Kindren were no more ready to accept her as an Elder than her own people would condone her marriage to a son of Rivenn. Aewen didn’t know all the details, but Selfred, one of the Kindren kingdoms, had formed when it divided from Glindenn as a result of the strife that followed. Ellendia and her husband had vanished together into the wilds of Dyloc Syldra to live hand-to-mouth, under constant threat from the garns who dwelt there.

Aewen stared at the minstrel with unabashed fascination. While he had the Kindren’s long eyes, his darker coloring was that of an Elder. Could he be a son of Ellendia?

He swung the timpani into place and boomed an accompaniment to “A Pirate’s Rolicking Tale.” Another minstrel stepped forward to sing, his bright voice threading the jaunty music.

Oh, I’ll away ‘cross the rolling sea

To an isle overlooked by all

But the lively men of Dead Man’s Key

Who never forget to call

Wandering ships into the lea

Of their hospitality

As verse after bantering verse enlivened the hall, Aewen’s exhaustion fell away, and she tapped her foot in time. Raefe, after ensuring she remained at his side, all but forgot her as he laughed with Caerla.

Now was her chance to escape. If she hurried, she could distribute leftover food to the poor when they gathered at the castle gatehouse. How she longed for her accustomed task and to hear news of little Caedmon. Had his wound healed? She hadn’t been able to keep her promise to check on him again. She made to rise from the table, but Raefe caught her wrist. “Stay with me.” His tone brooked no refusal.

A frisson of fear touched her. What did she really know of Raefe of Darksea?

She sat back down with her cheeks burning and rubbed the wrist he’d squeezed too tightly. Wood scraped as servants cleared the trestle tables from the floor below their dais, and a troop of acrobats ran in. They wore jerkins and leggings but kept their feet bare the better, she supposed, to perform their feats. The acrobats climbed on one another to form impossible towers. When they tumbled in a beautiful free fall, Aewen gasped with the others, but the acrobats landed on their feet.

Her weariness returned. When Raefe forgot her again in favor of Caerla, she managed to slip from his side at last. This time she did not murmur polite words in his ear but whispered instead to a servant she instructed to deliver her apologies to Raefe and her mother after she left. She sidled out of the hall by a servant’s door and followed the narrow passageway to the kitchen. Raefe might be angry to find her gone, but he should have let her go earlier. He didn’t own her, after all, at least not yet.

She descended worn wooden stairs illumined by wall-hung torches as voices drifted to her from below. She could put names to most of them. Maered, a dark-haired serving girl about half her own age, looked up from the rush baskets which held scraps of food and the trenchers of bread from which they’d eaten their meal. Maered smiled when she saw Aewen and held out one of the baskets from long habit.

Maered’s mother, Brianda, turned from scrubbing pots in a sink supplied with water piped into the kitchen from the Cobble River. “Tsk, girl! Don’t be disturbin’ the princess wi’ such.”

“Nonsense,” Aewen declared in robust tones as she laid hold of the basket. “I’ve come this night to tend the poor.”

Brianda gave her a hesitant look. “Are you certain, milady?”

Her heart sank. Why did Brianda address her with formality? And for that matter, why did the others gathered about the battered trestle table stare at her so?

She swept from the room, going up another flight of stairs made of equally worn wood. A small arched door gave onto the bailey and the side passage leading to the gatehouse.

“Who goes there?” The watchguard’s voice halted her.

“Let me pass, Lyriss. It’s only Aewen.”

From behind the portcullis above the watchtower, Lyriss gaped at her in surprise, and then broke into a toothy grin. “I thought to see you giving alms no more.”

“I will serve while I may.” She choked on her brave words but took a steadying breath. “Raise the portcullis so I and the others who will soon follow may distribute leftovers from the king’s table.”

Chains clanked as the portcullis raised with a groan. Outside the castle, the poor waited. She walked among them, not fearing these faces she knew. Her friends hailed her with gladness and without jostling stretched out thin hands to take the portions she gave. She smiled to herself. She’d taught them that, to consider one another even in their need.

She recognized the face of Jost, a weaver whose cottage stood just north of Willowa’s farm, and gave him the last trencher. “Do you have news of Caedmon? Does he heal?”

“Aye, he heals.” Jost delivered himself of this speech and bowed his head with a jerk, acting as strange as had those inside the kitchen. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. When had she become someone else?

Movement caught her eye. At the edge of the torchlight pranced a black horse with wings—a creature of surpassing beauty bearing a Kindren youth with fair hair tinged red in the torchlight from the guardhouse. She took a step toward him but halted, speechless.

“Well met, fair one.” His voice, soft and cool, stirred her.

She stared back at him with wide eyes.

His brows drew together. “Do you speak?”

She dipped her head and found her voice. “You are of the Kindren.”

He smiled. “I am indeed of the Kindren, as are my companions. Pray tell the watchguard that Lof Shraen Elcon seeks audience with King Euryon. But if the hour be too late, we can return tomorrow.”

His light gaze went over her as he spoke, touching her hair, her eyes, her mouth, speaking things his mouth did not say. She stumbled backward and ran from him as laughter broke from the Kindren riders who accompanied him.

“Princess Aewen, are you unharmed?” The voice of Darbin, one of the gatehouse guards, rang out as she approached. The sounds of mirth behind her ceased, and she realized the Kindren riders must have overheard. They’d taken her for a servant before, despite the rich garments she wore. It was one thing, it seemed, for a Kindren to laugh at a servant, but quite another to mock a princess of Westerland. She turned her head and shamed them all with a glance. But her gaze snagged with the light-eyed Kindren’s.

 

****

 

Never had Elcon seen hair so glossy and black that it shone like an eberrac’s wing. She seemed an exquisite gem, or a rare flower, one he might never find again. She watched him from eyes of palest blue with all the grace of a doe. He could not look away. She spoke to the guard, then without a backward glance entered the gatehouse. Bereft of her presence, the moon’s glow surely dimmed.

Kai drew up beside him. Elcon heard the sound of his voice but looked at him in helpless confusion, for he did not know what he said. At sight of the dark-haired Elder flower, Princess Aewen as the guard named her, Elcon’s life had changed forever. Never had he desired anything as much as he yearned for another glimpse of her. He resolved to find a way to meet Aewen again, to drink in her soft voice, and feast on her beauty. She was an Elder and he a Kindren. It could never be more, but he would have that much.

“Lof Shraen?” Kai interrupted his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Kai. I’m befuddled. I’ve just lost my soul.”

Kai whistled beneath his breath. “The Princess Aewen?”

Elcon answered him with silence.

The guard signaled their admittance to Cobbleford Castle, and they rode into the gatehouse, the graystone walls closing about them. Elcon dismounted and flung the reins to the groom who met him. He followed the servant who led them by lanthorn light into the rectangular outer bailey skirted by covered cobblestone paths.

Cobbleford’s great hall was small compared to Torindan’s but elegant nonetheless. New rushes strewed the floor, windows stretched tall, and the ceiling vaulted into shadow. Elcon bowed before Euryon, seated on the dais. Euryon stood and returned his bow, although Elcon thought he bent a measuring look upon him. “Welcome, Shraen Elcon of Rivenn, Lof Shraen of Faeraven.”

“I am glad to receive Westerland’s hospitality at such short notice. I thank you.”

Euryon inclined his head with perfect manners, although his lady, Queen Inydde, looked upset. Elcon greeted her and kissed her hand, but she snatched it back sooner than might be considered seemly. His gaze roamed about the room as he sought for his beautiful Elder flower.

“Will you not take food?” Inydde asked.

Elcon would have liked to accept her hospitality, but he knew better than to strain Inydde’s welcome. He shook his head. “We ate upon the way. But we will take something warming to drink, if you please.”

Inydde nodded to a servant who waited nearby. Another servant whispered in her ear, and Inydde cast a look down the long table to exchange glances with a black-haired, brawny youth he recognized as Raefe of Darksea. She stood. “Please, take your ease. There’s room at our table. I’ve a small matter to attend but will soon return.”

Elcon watched her go, disliking the way she carried herself as if going into battle. Cautioning himself to tread lightly with Inydde, he gave swift sympathy to whomever she sought.

He drank mulled cider while bards played lively strains and a line of men formed in what seemed a traditional dance with much balancing and quick footwork. He sat beside King Euryon, a place having been made for him, but real speech was not possible in the cacophony of music and voices. The subject he wished to broach called for privacy, at any rate. He would wait until he had the king’s undivided attention, hopefully on the morrow.

And then he forgot why he’d come to Westerland, for Princess Aewen accompanied Inydde upon her return. Her gaze cast downward, she approached with seeming reluctance but curtsied smoothly. It occurred to him to wonder if she had been the object of Inydde’s earlier wrath. She seemed uncomfortable, of a certain, but perhaps his presence bore the blame for that. He set himself to ease her if he could.

“I’m grateful for the chance to meet you, Princess Aewen.”

She looked at him in question, and he realized that in the general din she could not hear what he said. He stood and gave a polite bow to her father, and then came around the table to repeat himself close to her ear. She blushed and drew away. He looked up to find all eyes upon him. Rather than embarrass her further, he returned to his place at the table.

He saw that she seated herself beside Prince Raefe, and that Raefe took possession of her hand. A flash of discomfort went through him. Something was wrong between them. Aewen seemed only outwardly present. How he understood this, he did not pause to wonder. It seemed he could read Aewen with the ease of breath. He tried to hide his interest but could not keep his gaze from straying to her. Indeed, he knew her every movement. When she chanced to look his way, he caught her gaze and held it, at least until Inydde, beside him, troubled herself during a lull in the music to inquire about his journey from Rivenn.

Elcon pulled his attention from Aewen and turned to her mother. “We fared well enough, Your Majesty, although travel by wingabeast wearies both mind and body.”

She looked blank but then clasped her hands together. “Of course! You refer to the winged horses of Torindan, do you not? Have you brought them with you then? I wish to see them and perhaps ride one on the morrow.”

He smiled despite his misgivings. Riding a wingabeast required balance and training. Perhaps she would forget the notion by morning. An image rose before him, unbidden, of Aewen riding before him on Raeld, his wingabeast named for the darkest marches of the night. His arm held her in safety as her unbound hair caressed his face, and he bowed his head to kiss the back of her neck.

His face warmed, and he wondered if he blushed, especially when Inydde gave him a strange look. He needed to guard his thoughts. It would be best if he dealt with matters in Westerland and moved on, but he could not, somehow, bring himself to contemplate a quick departure, at least not until he knew why Aewen seemed a silent ghost whose smile did not quite reach her eyes.

 

****

 

Caerla pulled Aewen aside on the landing at the top of the stair. “Why the sad face?”

“Hush! Speak softly.” Aewen peered into the darkness beyond the light from the lanthorn Murial held.

Caerla gave her a gentle push. “Silly. No one follows us or cares what we say. Have you been reading books again? Mother says flights of poetry sicken the mind.”

Aewen kept silence on that subject. She alone of her household valued books except, in a small way, her father, who loved his histories but did not put any store in other works.

Murial opened the door to Aewen’s chambers, and Caerla followed them inside. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Aewen gave Caerla a quelling look, but at the concern written on her sister’s face, relented. “All right, but you’ll not like what I say.”

“Only if you refuse to marry.”

She curled her hands into fists. She longed to do just that, but it seemed she must endure marriage after all. Because she’d offended Raefe by leaving the feast, Mother had this night almost turned Murial out as threatened. Aewen had only just prevented disaster, and she doubted her mother would relent again.

She longed to tell Caerla the truth, to explain that Raefe had crushed her wrist to prevent her from leaving, and that she feared him now in a way she had not before. She wanted to speak of the green-eyed Kindren king who had cast a spell over her, but she told, instead, a simpler tale. “My head hurts.”

Caerla’s tawny eyes gleamed in the lanthorn light. “Do you speak truth?”

Heat rose into Aewen’s face.

“Come, and when you are ready for bed, I’ll rub lavender oil into your temples.” Murial’s call from her inner chamber saved her from responding. Caerla drew breath to say more but relented with a swift embrace. “Rest then.” She picked up the lanthorn and shook her head at Murial. “See to my sister. I can find my way next door, where Donia waits to tend me.”

But Murial took the lanthorn from Caerla’s hand and led her from the room as if she had not spoken. Aewen did not blame Murial for ensuring she neglected no duties. Mother did not treat her maid with kindness. She frowned, and a stray drop of moisture tracked down her face from the corner of her eye. Later, when she was alone, she would let tears dampen her pillow.

Murial readied her for bed, and she took comfort in her maid’s quiet ministrations. But no amount of lavender oil could remove the Kindren king from her thoughts. It seemed he followed her even into her dreams.