She soared on a crest of joy for what she had seen in his eyes: that her love was not one-sided. That, against all reason, he felt as she did. It was not delusion. It was real.
Then, even as she reveled in the wonder of that realization, touching her lips where his had touched them, trying to hold on to the magical memory . . . the other would intrude. The crashing table, the cold tendril of triumphed discovery that had wrenched them apart, the look of horrified realization on his face as he’d backed away.
“Forgive me, my lady. That never should have happened.”
Perhaps it shouldn’t have, but it had. And she could not regret it. Briellen had been monstrous to him ever since she’d arrived, but no less than this night. How could he marry her now?
But the question only started an entire chain of reasoning as to why he couldn’t and why he could, and . . . the fact was, he felt that kiss never should have happened.
Which brought her to the lowest trough of her stormy emotional seas. For if he thought thus, he would have to act thus. Which meant he intended to go through with the marriage, cementing the treaty, sacrificing himself—and her—for the sake of his realm.
Sometime around dawn she fell asleep and didn’t awake until Liza’s voice intruded into her dreams. “My lady, please. Ye must wake up. The king has called for ye.”
The king . . .
She woke at once, filled with dread, staring at her maid blankly.
“He’s called ye to audience in half an hour, milady.”
Maddie glanced at the mantel: almost ten o’clock. “Where?” she said, pushing back the cover and swinging her legs over the bedside. “In the throne room?”
“Nay. ’Tis informal. How could it not be, with him givin’ ye only half an hour?”
Informal? Is that good or bad? Wondrous possibilities soared in her heart, matched with disturbing alternatives. But sitting here wondering wasn’t going to answer questions.
Half an hour later she arrived at the king’s apartments, entering through the front doors for a change, and was immediately shown into the sitting chamber. A moment later Admiral Hamilton emerged from the study, map case in hand. He gave her a bow, then continued on to the anteroom as her attention shifted to Abramm, who entered in his wake.
The king looked as if he had slept no more than she, for his face was pale and haggard, and shadows cupped his eyes. Even so, just being in the same room with him made her pulse race and heightened her every sense to an exquisite level of awareness.
They exchanged the pleasantries protocol demanded with an awkward correctness. Then he got to the point: “There’s a guardstar in the fortress at Avramm’s Landing, I’m told. I’d like you to go up there and look into it. There may be some books in their library, as well.”
“Go up to Avramm’s Landing?”
“As soon as possible. It’s important that we figure out how to get that thing lit. If nothing else, Katahn’s little demonstration showed me that. I was hoping perhaps you might be able to leave today, in fact.” He smiled stiffly. “We have no time to lose. And I’ve got a vessel ready to move out this afternoon. I’m hoping you’ll consent to be on it.”
He looked right at her, his face that schooled mask of nothingness that could mean anything. “You did say you wanted to leave. This way you can satisfy us both. And it would probably be best for Briellen, as well.”
By now the room was fluttering around her and her heart thundered in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder at the servants standing just inside the door, hesitated with a moment’s uncertainty, then conjured a speaking cloak and took a step forward. He stared down at her with that maddeningly bland expression.
“So last night meant nothing, then?” she said finally, her voice tight and low.
His face did not change in the slightest. “I told you it never should have happened,” he murmured, turning to the fire.
“But it did happen.”
He nodded. “And because it must not happen again, I think it’s best that you go.”
She stared at him, feeling strangely hollow. “So you’re really not interested in Avramm’s Landing,” she said finally. “I could just as well go on to the Western Isles.”
“If that is your desire.” He spoke quietly and continued to stare into the flames, their light flickering across his face, turning the scars red.
Anguish twisted in her chest. “I should have left weeks ago,” she muttered. “And I should never have performed that song. That’s what’s made it all unravel.”
“It would have unraveled anyway.” He paused, still staring into the fire, then murmured, “Your song I will remember for the rest of my life.”
And at that a sharp pain lodged itself in her throat and she found herself blinking back tears. From the first moment she’d realized she loved him, she’d known it would end like this. Even if it turned out he might actually love her, she’d known nothing would be changed. Kiriath needed the treaty, and Briellen was the only way to get it. It was just a horrible, impossible situation that had finally reached its inevitable and heartbreaking conclusion. And there was nothing she could do about it.
She swallowed the lump, then drew a deep breath to calm her quivering flesh and lifted her chin. “Very well,” she said sturdily, amazed that her voice could come out so calm and even. “What time does the ship leave?”
He turned then to look down at her, surprise flickering across the unreadable mask. It was gone in an instant, everything turned to stone again— except for the tiny bunch of muscles that rippled at the corner of his jaw. After an interminable moment, he gave a nod, as if some deal had been closed, and turned again to the fire. “Four o’clock this afternoon,” he said flatly.
By now she could scarcely hear for the roaring in her ears. But somehow her mouth was telling him she would pack her things at once. Dimly she heard him say he would send someone up with all the information, and also an escort to take her to the boat. She told him an escort would not be necessary, though she appreciated the kindness offered. Then, in the same mindless way as her mouth had spoken, her body curtseyed and walked her out of the room, through the antechamber and into the upper gallery, filled now with courtiers and supplicants eager to place their petitions before the king. Don’t you dare lose it here, Mad. You can’t let them see your pain. They’ll be laughing over it for years.
Thus, she walked among them calmly, though she knew she must look dazed because she saw the eyes darting her way, saw the heads leaning toward one another, the quiet commentary exchanged. She heard none of it. Even the greetings made directly to her she perceived as meaningless babble, answering them by rote and moving on.
In this state she crossed the King’s Court and climbed the stair to the west wing, until at long last she reached the safety of her own apartments. And there, the very moment she closed the door behind her, the world melted around her and she collapsed onto one of the green patterned divans. With her ears ringing and her head spinning, she put her hands to her face, and for the first time realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. Oh, Eidon! she thought, horrified. Not in front of all of them!
But then again, what difference would it make? She was leaving. Abramm was sending her away. He’d chosen Briellen. But she wondered why—when she’d always known he must—the reality could still hurt this much.
“Maddie?” Carissa’s voice.
Oh, please, Father Eidon, send her away. I cannot face her.
But Eidon did not listen, and Carissa dropped onto the couch beside her to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Maddie? What’s wrong? What did he say to you?”
But she couldn’t speak. For she knew that if she tried she would make a scene, and she desperately did not want to do that. Bad enough she had to leave. Bad enough she’d shown him her heart and he’d spurned it.
“Maddie, please. What has happened?”
And despite all intention to the contrary, Maddie found herself choking out the story.
——??
?—
After his cabinet meeting, Abramm changed into plain shirt and breeches, shrugged into a leather jerkin, and went down to row around the lake. It was cool beneath the low-hanging clouds, which were just starting to spit rain. He took only one bodyguard—today it was Philip—and set off to row the circuit, guaranteed, for the most part, of not being interrupted until he was done. Precious few of his courtiers had the desire or ability to row out and join him, and Trap said few would have the nerve anyway. It had become an aphorism around the court that if the king was rowing, you knew he was troubled.
Usually he had the stimulation of cabinet meetings and courtier petitions to keep his mind off things he’d rather not think about. Today, they’d only irritated him. Today, he’d had a hard time paying attention to anything, and he reflected grimly that his inattention had not gone unnoticed. No one had said anything openly, of course, but he seemed to be asking his people to repeat a lot, and guessed there’d been a number of times things had been repeated even when he hadn’t asked.
Now he fell into the familiar, comfortable rhythm, his boat leaping forward— backward from his perspective—in eager response to the strength of his pulling. His left hand could not grip the oar well enough to keep hold of it, so he had had a special leather sleeve made for the handle that was attached to a glove with a leather wrist thong. In essence the contraption tied his hand to the oar so he could work it.
Knowing the lake well enough by now—he could row with his back to the direction of his progress and still navigate perfectly—he skirted the west bank without noticing. The creak of the oars in the locks, the drip of water from the oar blades, the faint groaning of the vessel’s wooden hull as it moved through the water—these were welcome sounds after the chaotic chatter of the cabinet meeting and the palace halls. No one asking him anything, no one expecting a decision, no one here but Philip, who knew to pretend he was not here.
Abramm’s interview with Maddie kept cycling through his mind, shriveling his heart with every repetition. The way he’d been so cool and businesslike, wincing at the pain in her voice even as she’d tried to hide it.
He’d known she would challenge him about last night, that she knew him too well to ever believe it had been nothing. But they had to behave as if it were—especially him. Her mention of the song had rattled him, but it was the moment when she’d acquiesced that had nearly done him in. Of course she would understand, of course there would not be hysterics and pleading and rivers of tears. Of course she would jerk up that chin and agree . . . and in that moment the words to stop it all had been at the tip of his tongue.
It was only the vision of her dead in his arms that gave him the power to go on. The vision and the certain knowledge that she was meant for someone else, because he was meant for no one.
Still, there were moments he could hardly believe he was doing this, for it didn’t seem possible life could go on without her. Moments when the desire to put an end to the whole mad plan nearly overwhelmed him.
Just a few more hours now. If he could hold on a few more hours it would be done . . . and this constant nagging of guilt and desire would finally be silenced. There would be no more action he could take. She would be gone and he would be free of her. Free to concentrate on his wedding. On his regalia. On his fortresses.
“Sir?” Philip’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts. “Princess Carissa is standing out on the north dock. Looks like she might be waiting for you.”
Abramm glanced over his shoulder and almost swore aloud. He had no illusions as to what she might want to talk about. But avoiding her would serve nothing. He knew she would simply ride to the other side of the lake and await him when he finished. She would have her say. He might as well get it over with.
Thus he rowed silently up to the dock, excused Philip from further service, and Carissa took the young man’s place. She did not sit at the boat’s prow as Philip had, however, but came to sit on the thwart at its stern so she didn’t have to talk to Abramm’s back. They exchanged a minimal greeting, then he rowed off again.
When they were well away from the dock, Carissa said quietly, “I’ve spoken with Maddie.”
Abramm kept rowing and said nothing.
She frowned at him, but he fixed his gaze on the mist-veiled trees at her back. Finally, seeing he wasn’t going to cooperate, she huffed her irritation and burst out, “What the plague are you doing, Abramm? And don’t waste your breath telling me you care nothing for her. She told me what you did in the library last night.”
Abramm gritted his teeth and felt the blood rush into his face, felt his stomach knotting even more tightly than it already was. Coming to the end of his stroke, he lifted the oars enough to tuck the right briefly under his left hand so he could conjure a cloaking spell with his right. Voices carried far too well across the water on a day as still as this. As the faint chiming settled around them, he returned both hands to the oars and finally looked her in the eye. “Last night was a brief aberration that by Eidon’s grace alone did not develop into outright disaster.”
Her brows drew together. “Last night was something that’s been building to a head for months, Abramm. Don’t talk to me of brief aberrations.”
Now it was Abramm’s turn to scowl, feeling his irritation rise at this sudden bout of big-sisterly bossiness. “Well, whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. I said I’d marry Briellen, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
The oars squealed in the locks as he began to row again.
“Briellen loathes you. Which she’s stupidly revealed to the entire court and in the process lost whatever friends she’s made herself.”
“We’re not required to love one another.”
“Well, I don’t see that you’re required to marry one another, either. Rewrite the stupid treaty without that part. And if Hadrich fears his daughter falling into Belthre’gar’s hands, tell him she’d be better off not married to you anyway, since Regar would want her for that reason alone. If he knows you don’t love her, he won’t even bother with her.”
“She’s the First Daughter of Chesedh, Carissa. She has worth to him from that standpoint, too.”
“So you’ll cast out the woman you love to protect that vicious harridan from Belthre’gar? What sense does that make? If you’re going to protect someone, shouldn’t it be Maddie?”
I am protecting her, he thought. But Carissa wouldn’t understand, and he wasn’t about to explain it. And so he said, “This isn’t about protection.”
“You just said it was. That you were marrying Bree to protect her.”
“No, you said that. I’m marrying Briellen because I said I would.”
“That’s an even stupider reason.”
He rowed on in silence.
After a few strokes she pressed him. “Leyton’s heard the gossip by now and no doubt senses the turning of the court’s attitude toward her. If he has a brain at all, he’s rightfully worrying she’s soured the whole deal. Give him an offer, and he’ll probably fall over backwards trying to accommodate you.”
“Perhaps he would.”
For a time the only sounds were the creaks and the squeaks and the rhythmic dripping of the water. Carissa waited expectantly, her eyes continuously darting over his shoulder toward the southern dock, which he knew from the lay of the land and the character of the foliage was rapidly approaching at his back.
Finally seeing he was not going to answer her, she burst out, “Why are you doing this, Abramm? It’s like you’re trying to punish yourself. What man in his right mind would bind himself to a woman who’s publicly declared she despises him? It’s insane.”
“That may be, but it’s not really your concern, now, is it?” he said, looking her straight in the eye.
Her face tightened and her eyes flashed. As he lifted the oars, letting the boat’s momentum carry them on toward the dock, she uttered a cry of frustration. “You’re every bit as muleheaded as Father was! Well, fine, then. Destroy your life if you’re so set
on it. But know that you’ll destroy Maddie’s in the process. And likely Briellen’s, too.”
He unwrapped the wrist strap and drew his left hand from its glove as she spoke, then drew both oars from their locks and laid them alongside the gunwale. As the boat bumped up against the dock, he turned to cast up the rope to the men waiting there, one of whom was Trap. As the rope was snugged to a piling, he released the cloaking spell and turned to help Carissa up the ladder, but she knocked away his hands and climbed it herself. He swung up after her without comment.
Trap clearly hoped to speak to him, too, but Abramm pushed past him as if he weren’t there, stopping a little farther on so the servant could lay his cloak about his shoulders. But then he strode away up the graveled path toward the palace before the others could catch up.
Later that afternoon, he went down to the wharf to watch Maddie leave. By then it was raining steadily, but he took no shelter, watching from a distance as she boarded the longboat that would bear her out to the merchantman he’d booked her passage on. He’d thought he couldn’t feel much worse than he had this morning when he’d asked her to go, but he did. As he stood watching her, it seemed as if something vital were being torn out of him, inch by inch, in a long, slow torture. He kept wanting to call out and stop her.
But every time he came close to faltering, he remembered the image of her lying dead in his arms in the pool of her own blood. That would be the price she’d pay for loving him. He’d done it to one woman. He wasn’t doing it to another.
Once aboard the longboat, she sat in the stern looking back over her shoulder, cowl cast back, hair darkened by the rain and plastered to her skull. She was weeping, though how he knew that he could not answer. Any tears would surely be carried away by the water sheeting down her face, and she was too far away for him to see her expression.