The High King's Tomb

  She walked the gravel pathway, drawing her shawl about her shoulders. The mist that permeated everything had subsided, but the sky was still heavy and the air smelled of wet earth and moldering leaves. The garden had gone to dull yellows and browns, the flower beds already mulched against frost and the coming winter. It was a sparse scene, with only a few of the trees holding onto their leaves.

  If Estora thought things unbearable now, winter would only be worse, cooped up in the castle with all her relatives and nowhere to escape. The gardens would be snowy, icy, cold. She shivered at the mere thought. Spring would prove no better, for then would be the wedding.

  It didn’t help that Zachary did not have a moment to spare for her. She knew the realm must come first, but why couldn’t he even involve her in the business of its running? If she was to be queen, she must learn all she could about it. If he didn’t have time for her as his betrothed, he should at least spare time for the one with whom he’d be sharing power. She refused to ascend the throne simply to be his brood mare, and if that was all he expected of her, then he was in for a surprise.

  The arrival of the Eletians sparked her discontent. The castle, of course, was full of gossip about the mysterious folk and what their visit portended, and she, like everyone else, wanted to see firsthand their encampment, at the very least. Instead, she had to rely on secondhand descriptions of the tents, for both the king and her father had forbidden her to leave the castle grounds. Forbidden her! Was she to be queen, or a prisoner? If the latter, she might as well throw herself off the castle’s highest tower at once.

  She pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. It was not fair. It was not fair that she have no choice in this marriage, and it was not fair that she be excluded from the business of the country she was to help lead. Her father and Zachary treated her as though she were some fine porcelain vase that would crack and break if someone even glanced inappropriately at her.

  If only they knew the truth! The truth of her relationship with F’ryan. She felt faint at the very thought of its exposure, for her father’s response would be swift, extreme, and devastating. He’d consider her ruined, and cast her from the clan forever, never permitting her near family members again.

  Zachary’s reaction? That was more difficult to divine, for he was in many ways a mystery to her. How strictly did he judge transgressions of the heart?

  She slowed her walk, considering. So far she hadn’t given anyone any reason to doubt her virtue. Only the Green Riders knew about her and F’ryan, and they were bound by honor to keep her secret. None of them wanted to see her disowned by her clan, and by safeguarding her reputation, the Riders also honored F’ryan, and his wish that they look out for her.

  For this Estora was thankful beyond measure, but she also knew the Riders were oathbound servants of the king. In light of the betrothal, how could they continue to withhold the secret from him?

  “And for how long?” she murmured. Long enough that he did not discover the truth till their wedding night?

  She paused and picked up a perfect crimson maple leaf from the pathway and twirled it between her fingers. In court, chaste behavior was expected, but what actually happened was another thing. Estora knew of young noble ladies who carried on secret affairs, though it was difficult to say for certain which of these liasons were actually consummated. Much of it appeared innocent: gifts hidden in niches, soulful poetry read through open windows, romantic strolls through the garden, stolen kisses, all accompanied by an ample amount of swooning and dreamy looks.

  It was all a result, she believed, of young people who would soon be faced with arranged marriages, often to total strangers. They saw only a lifetime barren of love ahead of them, a marriage made for alliance and bloodline, not for personal happiness. It pushed forbidden romances to be all the more fiery, passionate. And heartrending. Sometimes driving them to their apex.

  Periodically a young woman would be “sent away” from court by her parents for one purpose or another, but everyone knew the real reason. Either it was to separate her from an unsuitable paramour, or, if the young lady in question was not careful enough, to conceal her gravid condition. A family of status, especially a noble family, would not wish their good name besmirched by such a disgrace.

  How was it for the others, Estora wondered, bending her leaf between her fingers. How was it for those who weren’t so obviously compromised? What did they say and do on their wedding night when their maiden’s blood, the mark of their chastity, did not flow?

  There were ways to explain it, of course. Some girls “damaged” themselves just horseback riding, but she doubted such claims salved the temper of new husbands expecting virginal wives. Some young ladies might stain the bridal bed with pig’s blood to trick their husbands, but most men, she believed, were not stupid enough to fall for it.

  What would she do?

  There was, she supposed, the truth. But just how did one go about telling her intended, who also happened to be the king, that she had been with another man? And what would he do when he knew the truth?

  After all, in the end, her fate was in Zachary’s hands.

  Perhaps he’d be understanding. She did not think he lived the life of a celibate himself, but it was different for men. More acceptable for them, especially men of power, to engage in liasons as they wished. In contrast, if Zachary did not take the truth well, it could destroy her. She would never escape the shame.

  Thought of the repercussions dizzied her, made her want to hide in a dark cave somewhere far away, but she could not deny her love for F’ryan, and she would not change it, or the past, for all the world. Soon, however, she would have to find a way to address it with her husband-to-be, and pray his outrage would not lead to her becoming a pariah to her own clan and in turn ruin the peace between the eastern provinces and the west. She would pray, and pray fervently, for strength and courage.

  At the sound of footsteps upon the gravel path, she turned to find Lord Amberhill strolling leisurely toward her.

  “Good day, my lady,” he said with a half bow.

  She nodded, trying not to show her surprise. “Good day to you.”

  “May I offer you my coat?” he inquired. “You look chilled.”

  “Thank you, no. I’m fine.” An awkward moment passed and Estora felt a blush creeping up her neck.

  Amberhill bowed his head to her again, a lock of raven hair straying from his pony tail to hang over his temple. “Forgive me for my intrusion then, my lady.” And he turned to leave.

  Estora took a step after him. “Wait.”

  He paused and faced her. “Yes?”

  Estora wasn’t quite sure what impulse drove her to stop him. Discomfited, it took her a breath or two to respond. “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced.”

  “It is true, but I would not pretend to be worthy of your attention.”

  Estora almost laughed. The words were pretty enough, but she did not believe him so modest, and they exchanged enough covert looks at the Huradeshian reception to dispute his words.

  “I expect to know all those who are of blood relation to my future husband.”

  Amberhill quirked an eyebrow. “Then I am not completely unknown to you.”

  “Hardly an introduction.”

  “Then allow me to remedy that.” He put his hand to temple and bent into a deep, supple bow, the velvet of his dark blue frock coat rippling across his shoulders. The coat was in good condition, she noted, but of a style from her grandfather’s generation, with its puffed sleeves. His linen shirt was yellowed and frayed at the collar.

  “I am Xandis Pierce Amberhill. The third. And your servant.” When he rose, he stood erect and proud, and gazed at her as if daring her to dispute his lineage.

  “And cousin to the king,” she added.

  “Somewhat removed.”

  Estora thought it interesting he’d admit such to her. Most would try to emphasize the closeness of the relationship rather than its distance. Sinc
e the announcement of her wedding contract, she was sprouting distant relations she never knew existed.

  Amberhill gazed into the distance as if in deep thought before returning his attention to her. “I am of Clan Hillander, and my lands, what are left of them, are in the middle of the province.”

  Her cousin, Richmont Spane, had indicated Amberhill was an impoverished landowner, but she did not pry.

  “And what brings you to Sacor City?” she inquired.

  “Why news of my cousin’s betrothal,” he said with a grin. “And other business.”

  Estora hadn’t noticed when they began strolling, but stroll they did along the garden paths. She supposed others would view this as indecent, that she, future wife to the king, was strolling unchaperoned with another man—unless one counted her Weapon, and most did not.

  With her thoughts of F’ryan and her sullied circumstances still fresh in her mind, she found herself tired, wrung out by such worries. She dropped her maple leaf, watched it whirl to the ground, staining the earth blood-red.

  “Have you been down to see the Eletians?” Amberhill inquired.

  “No.”

  Her answer must have sounded vehement enough that he gave her a startled look.

  “They won’t let me,” she added.

  “They?”

  “My father and the king.”

  “Oh, I see. For your protection.”

  Estora wanted to scream, but she retained her composure and her calm facade. “So they say.”

  “Well, one knows so little of these Eletians and the dangers they pose,” Amberhill said, “and you are worth protecting.” Then he paused in the walkway. “The poets have spoken of you and the minstrels sung.”

  “I am afraid they have created words about an ideal that does not exist.”

  “I see no flaws.”

  “I am but an ordinary woman.”

  “A woman, yes,” he said. “I had noticed that. But ordinary? I think not.”

  Estora should have blushed, but she could only sigh. She had heard it all before, all the flattery from so many men. Only F’ryan ever reached her with his words.

  He gazed boldly at her. She had seen the hunger on the faces of men before, from the promise of power a marriage alliance would secure, or raw lust for her body. Amberhill carried something altogether different in his demeanor. Yes, the desire was there, but allied with a cocky self-confidence and a residue of…of mockery?

  He chuckled and shook his head. “You take yourself much too seriously, my lady.”

  Estora’s mouth dropped open and she did not know what to say.

  “I must be off,” Amberhill said with surprising brusqueness. He gave her one of his graceful bows. “It’s been an honor.” He strode off and she could only watch him go, his gait fluid like a cat’s, sleek, belying tautly corded muscles ready to pounce.

  How dare he? she fumed. And when she realized how much she was admiring the view of him from behind, she turned away, her cheeks warming.

  To accuse her of taking herself too seriously and then run off? How dare he?

  Coward.

  She set off along the garden path at a furious rate not caring where her feet led her. Why did she allow him to prickle her so badly? She paused and took some breaths, willing calm to blanket her. He had been playing with her. And perhaps he prickled her because he was right: she took herself too seriously.

  She started along the path again, but at a more sedate pace. There was no other way to be. Only F’ryan had lifted her cool introspection from her. He made her laugh like a girl; his lovemaking took her to the core of her being, made her real. He unlocked her true self.

  She had been drawn to F’ryan by his roguish charm, his reckless humor, and his bald honesty. With a start, she realized that Xandis Pierce Amberhill exhibited something of F’ryan’s roguish nature, and he had been nothing if not honest.

  A QUEEN’S PLACE

  Amberhill’s abrupt departure did little to improve Estora’s humor. Feeling rather damp and chilled, she abandoned the gardens for the indoors, but she could not bear to return to the family quarters and her mother’s crowded chamber where the women must surely still be sampling the wines and dainties.

  She often walked the castle corridors, especially when the weather was inclement, and after so long as a resident, she’d grown to know them well, from the dwellings of servants and the bustling administrative wing to the plush monarch’s wing, of which one day she would be an inhabitant.

  She made now for the castle library with sure steps. Often it was a quiet refuge that few took advantage of. She could not imagine why, for it contained an impressive collection of books both rare and common, covering histories, herb lore, poetry, fiction, and more. She especially enjoyed leafing through ancient manuscripts, painstakingly lettered by hand and illuminated with bright inks and gold leaf. These eldest of texts were written in Old Sacoridian, so she understood very little of the content, but she was drawn to the artistry. The printing press, with its movable type, made books more widely available and in greater quantities, but they contained little of the visual beauty of their predecessors.

  The library was located on the west side of the main castle, not far from the monarch’s wing. To her relief, she encountered few people along the way and those who she did simply nodded courteously as she passed by and did not hinder her.

  When she arrived at the library, she found the great doors wide open, and bronze light puddling beneath the arched entry. Her silent Weapon slipped by her and into the library chamber to ensure no dangers awaited her. Perhaps a venomous bookworm? A tome of vicious intent overhanging its shelf ready to pounce on her head? She smiled and entered.

  Whenever she stepped into the library, she always had a sense of the castle walls falling away, an enormous space expanding around her. The main chamber was circular with marble columns supporting a domed ceiling, which was painted with constellations, accentuating the feeling of vastness. Colorful book bindings lined the walls, starting from the floor and soaring up two stories. The upper levels were accessed by spiraling stairs and narrow walkways that looked over brass banisters to the main chamber below.

  On each level, books on high shelves could be reached by rolling ladders. Despite the extensive proportions of the chamber, Estora was not intimidated, but rather seduced, for all the books housed there contained inestimable amounts of knowledge just waiting to be discovered and devoured.

  She glanced about in pleasure, as she always did when entering the room, and found Master Fogg, a man of middling years, poised over his desk, scrutinizing a tall stack of volumes. When he noted her presence, he hopped off his stool and bowed to her.

  “My lady! Such an honor to see you again. Is there anything with which I may assist you?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m going to browse the stacks.”

  “Very good,” he said. “Please call me the instant you have a need.”

  “I shall.”

  A fire blazed and flickered in the grand hearth which was tucked into an alcove. A pair of comfortable chairs were situated before it, a Hillander terrier sprawled across one of them, its legs twitching in a dream. With a start, Estora realized that where there was a Hillander terrier, there was likely to be the king. She glanced around again, seeing only a pile of books on one of the tables in the center of the chamber, and a black cloak draped across a chair. If it was indeed the king, then he must be in the long room beyond the main chamber, which was also filled with books.

  Estora did not know whether to leave or remain, and while she stood there trapped in indecision, Zachary emerged from the back chamber bearing heavy tomes in his arms, followed by his Weapon, Fastion, who was likewise burdened. It was too late to leave now, for the king had seen her.

  Master Fogg leaped off his stool. “Sire! You should have told me—I could have retrieved those books for you!”

  “No need; Fastion and I are quite capable of carrying them.”

  Mas
ter Fogg bowed and returned to his desk.

  After Zachary set down his load on the table, he nodded to Estora. “My lady.”

  “Sire,” she said with a curtsy. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I should leave.”

  “Nonsense.” He rounded the table and approached her. He was dressed formally in black and she guessed he must have just returned from meeting with the Eletians. “I hope my presence won’t deter you from enjoying the library. In fact, I was just thinking of taking my tea here. Would you join me?”

  Estora hesitated, taken aback. Hadn’t she complained that the two of them were so often mobbed they never had a moment for a quiet word? Though they were not precisely alone with the librarian and two Weapons present, this was as close to it they would ever get. Until they were married.

  “Thank you, sire, I would enjoy some tea.”

  The tea was sent for and Zachary scooped up the terrier from its chair and placed it gently on the hearth rug.

  “There you go, Brex,” he said. The dog licked its paw and flopped back to sleep.

  Zachary and Estora settled into their chairs and awaited the tea.

  “You are doing some research?” Estora asked.

  “I’m looking over what some of the old histories have to say about Eletians—even the legends. I’ve read most of it before, but I thought I’d go over it again.”

  “They are a mysterious people.”

  “And I’m afraid the books do not tell me much. Once there was more openness between our races.”

  “Did your meeting not go well?” Estora asked.

  A slow smile grew on his face. “I am under the impression they have preconceived notions of whom and what they are dealing with, and they know very well their ability to inspire awe in others. When the proper amount of awe is not exhibited?” He shrugged. “I do not fear them, though perhaps I should. It will take time for us to come to understand one another.”