So she’d arisen and washed, dressed, eaten, taken a walk about the deck, talked cheerfully with the captain at some length about the ship and the shore and the weather, and then had gone below to crack open the books on the Western Isles she’d brought to prepare herself for her new life.
Days later she was still reading the same introductory pages without comprehending one word that she read. The only things that could hold her interest were the Words of Eidon, and even that didn’t always work.
Now she stared blindly out the small, rain-pecked panes at the rain-swept afternoon. Face it: he is not the man for you, nor is that the life Eidon has chosen for you. And you know very well, whenever Eidon says no to something, it’s because he has something better.
Something better. That was what she must hang on to. To keep recalling, over and over, that he had control of her life, that he loved her, that none of this was surprising to him and all was working out as it should. This brief bit of pain, mostly the result of her own headstrong desire to have her will rather than embrace his, would in the end work out for her benefit. Just like Abramm, she had a destiny. What it was, she did not know, but sooner or later Eidon would show it to her. And when he did, when she finally walked into it, the Words promised her that it would make all this turmoil worthwhile. She just had to be patient and keep on living in the Light.
She drew a deep breath, feeling a semblance of peace again and taking comfort in the realization that these moments were coming more often of late . . . that it wouldn’t be long before this was over. As soon as she arrived in Avramm’s Landing, she planned to book passage to the Western Isles, hopefully leaving within the week. A two-month voyage would be just the thing to close out this unfortunate chapter in her— She frowned and sat forward, peering through the glass. The rain had stopped, and with its passing she saw that the clot of mist still swirled in Starchaser’s wake. Had, in fact, gained on them. Moreover, she thought she’d seen something in it. At first she supposed it was a rock, but on further reflection realized Starchaser would have sailed close by it not long ago, and she’d seen nothing of the kind.
Though you weren’t exactly paying attention, she told herself dryly.
Still, the more she watched it, the more inexplicably threatened she felt. Finally she went up to the quarterdeck for a different view of it, figuring at the least the captain could assure her it was indeed a rock.
Instead Captain Windemere told her they typically gave the rocks wide berth. “But let us put the spyglass to this mystery.”
Surprisingly willing to accommodate her vague suspicion, he peered at the mist clot with his telescope for some time before handing the glass to her with a regretful shake of his head. She studied the mist even longer than he had, but nothing untoward revealed itself. Finally her aching arms could lift the glass no longer, and she gave up.
“Sorry for the false alarm,” she said, embarrassed as she handed the glass tube back to him. He took it soberly, slid it shut, and told her “ ’twas no trouble at all. I appreciate the extra eyes.”
It was his smile that made her realize he, like Liza, was simply happy to see her up and showing interest in something besides her troubles. When she asked what else it might have been if not rock, he was diplomatic enough not to say imagination and speculated it could have been a whale or small fishing boat. At which point he eyed the cloud again. “Though I must admit, it is odd how it’s hung together so long. . . .”
She turned to look again herself. “And the way it’s following us.”
He frowned but faced his ship again, glancing up at the rigging, where the sails swelled before the afternoon breeze.
She asked him then of the fortress at Avramm’s Landing, and he happily shared his knowledge, though much of what he told her she already knew. Avramm, a captain in the Ophiran emperor’s personal guard, and a devout Terstan, had been at sea heading for Hasmal’uk when he was hit by the great Cataclysm unleashed by the sinking of the Ophiran Heartland. The massive wave had shattered his four ships to flotsam and hurled him and a handful of his crew ashore near an old imperial fortress with a guardstar that was slowly dying. Avramm had re-ignited it, casting back the darkness that had gripped the region for centuries, and as a result eventually became king of Hasmul’uk. The guardstar had gone out again sometime during the Middle Years of Kiriathan history, but no one knew why. Nor how to relight it.
In the midst of Windemere’s enthusiastic recitation of this history, his first mate approached from the taffrail and stood at his side, waiting to be acknowledged. Maddie noticed that he kept glancing backward, but she refrained from doing so herself until the captain finally wound down and turned to his subordinate. “What is it, Mr. White?”
“Cap’n . . . that cloud you and the lady was looking at earlier? I think there’s something in it.” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “More than that, sir. I been watching it for over an hour and I believe it’s following us.”
“Something in it?” Windemere asked. “You mean like a vessel of some sort?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain frowned. “How could it make the cloud stay around it as it follows us, mister?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“I do,” said Maddie soberly.
The men turned to her in question.
“Esurhites,” she said.
They exchanged a quick glance; then Windemere looked up at the sails. And in the fading light of the late afternoon, Maddie could see the breeze was faltering.
CHAPTER
25
Two days before the royal wedding, the Duke of Northille stood in the second-floor bedchamber of his new house in the prestigious Bayview district of Springerlan, threading his arms into the sleeves of the short-waisted jacket his valet held up behind him. In front of him, his tailor carefully folded into its linen wrapper his new suit in progress, which he had just tried on for its last fitting. Arms now in the jacket’s sleeves, Trap started to shrug the garment up over his shoulders, then stopped as he remembered to let the valet do it for him.
“I’ll have it ready for you by eight tomorrow morning, sir,” said the tailor.
“Excellent,” Trap replied. He left the man gathering his pincushions, chalk, and tape measures into a satchel and stepped into the hall outside, bemused. I have a tailor. When, in all my life, would I ever have imagined I’d have a tailor?
And more than a tailor. He had a personal secretary, an accountant, a couple of lawyers, a handful of personal servants, more than a handful of domestic servants, grooms, stableboys, several fine horses, a burgeoning wardrobe, and a home in a district populated by the richest men in Springerlan. His own home, not leased. And this was only a temporary residence.
The stair he descended was carpeted with a fine Sorian runner, the walls beside it richly paneled, and the spacious antechamber below dominated by an expensive crystal chandelier. At the foot of the stair he stepped aside as a pair of movers came through the open front door with the fine bedstead he’d just purchased and began jockeying it up the stairs. He had slept on a pallet last night, as much for the pleasure of sleeping in his own house as to get away from the king’s foul temper, increasing now in inverse proportion to the number of days left before his wedding. Tonight it would be the feather bed.
“Sir?”
He turned to his doorman, who stood holding a basket of fruit. “This just came from your sister. Her servant’s asking when would be a good time for her and her husband to come over.”
Trap grimaced. His older sister had been content to ignore him for almost all his thirty-two years of life. Now that he was a duke, however, she’d become suddenly friendly, barraging him with unwanted gifts, cards, and invitations. Two days ago, mere hours after his secretary had closed the deal on this house, she’d waylaid him in the palace, lamenting that she and her husband could not afford the rent where they were staying. Might he know of more suitable lodgings?
He’d offered his new home, of cours
e, and then his other sister had found out and sent him her own notice—not request, but notice—that they’d be arriving on the eve of the wedding. So now, in addition to having his father, mother, and Philip on hand for the many gatherings he had slated for the next week, he would also have to contend with his two sisters and their children. At least his other two sisters were likely to remain in the Heartland, where they lived with their very large families. Should they somehow manage to arrive for the wedding, he would certainly have a houseful.
Which both irritated him and pummeled him with guilt for not feeling more generous about it all. It wasn’t as if he deserved any of what he had, so why shouldn’t he share it with them, his blood relatives? They were sisters to a duke now, and from the look of things, they were reveling in his change of station even more than he was.
He gave a time to the doorman, then went into the dining room to eat his breakfast. He was nearly finished when his secretary poked his head around the dining room door. “The Princess Carissa is here, sir. She was out and about and decided to drop by with a housewarming gift. Vernault has taken her to the drawing room.”
A housewarming gift?
Carissa had, in fact, been the one to find him this house. Simon had helped him with recommendations of secretary and accountant, both of whom had seen to the rest. Within two weeks of his being elevated to the peerage, he’d acquired a veritable retinue of employees and he’d hardly had to do a thing.
She stood in the sparsely furnished drawing room supervising the unwrapping of the very large painting she had brought. Though he’d only moved in yesterday, already the still-uncarpeted room held two divans, three chairs, a sideboard, and a small table. Lace sheers hung at tall, eight-paned windows in the front and side walls, the trees that surrounded his house showing as dark ghostly forms through the fabric. A clock already stood on the elaborately carved mantel above the fireplace, where the servants had kindled a blaze for his unexpected guest.
She turned to him the moment he entered, lighting up his day with her smile. “Ah, Duke Eltrap. Good morning to you, sir.”
At least Trap was getting used to that moniker and no longer felt the urge to turn and look for someone standing behind him. “Good morning, Your Highness.”
“Don’t worry. I know about your meeting with the Heartlanders from your duchy this morning, so I’ll not keep you long.”
He cocked a brow at her. “You are certainly following my affairs with a close eye, Highness.”
She smiled. “Have to keep track of our up-and-coming young statesman. And you are quite the talk of the town these days, you know. Even Oswain Nott managed to parcel you a grudging bit of praise for your diplomatic ways.”
Trap grunted and turned his attention to the huge canvas emerging from its wrappings. He felt his eyebrows lift with surprise. It was a storm-swept scene of two armies faced off in a field by the sea. “Prelude to the Hollyhock,” he said, looking up at her in astonishment.
Her smiled broadened. “I’ve watched you eyeing it for months.”
“But it was hanging in your own drawing room—”
“I’ve already put up its replacement. Young Nash has finished the consignment piece I ordered. Did a fabulous job, too.”
“But . . . you said you loved this one.”
“Aye, and I expect you to hang it over your mantel so I can see it every time I come to visit.” Her eyes twinkled.
“Well, then, by all means, that’s where it will hang.” He gestured for the servants to see to it, then said, “You didn’t have to deliver this personally, Your Highness.”
“I wanted to enjoy your expression. And also to get it to you before your evening soirees start in earnest next week. I do believe you’ve scheduled one nearly every night.”
He released a deep breath. “Yes. I’m afraid I have.” With men coming down from all over the realm to attend the wedding, he’d set himself the goal of meeting and conversing with as many of them as he could—and already was beginning to think it was a task beyond his ability to execute.
The servants had pulled over a step stool, and one climbed it to hammer in a nail and lift the painting into place. He then stepped down and they all stood back to assess it.
“So,” Carissa said. “What do you think?”
And standing there in the middle of his new drawing room, with its gleaming parquet floors, fancy wallpaper, fine furnishings, and now this incredible piece of art, Trap was beset with another of those disorienting moments when it felt as if he’d somehow fallen into another man’s life. Tailors and secretaries, new suits and feather beds, paintings that belonged in the royal gallery. . . . None of it seemed real.
She was regarding him quizzically. “What?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I just get overwhelmed with how my life has changed. I know Eidon’s promised to reward those who honor him, but seeing it fulfilled like this . . . I guess I never really thought it could happen to me.”
“You are living most men’s dreams, sir. And you give the rest of us hope that—” she smiled almost sadly, then looked down at her hands—“maybe someday our dreams will be realized, too.”
After six months of getting to know her, he understood how much she longed for a husband and children, and also just how dim the prospect of having either looked to her. Oswain Nott held sufficient rank to go with his obvious desire to fill the role, but Carissa continued to keep him at arm’s length. Simon Kalladorne, also a duke, was her uncle, and Crown Prince Leyton was too distasteful, even assuming anyone would countenance a second Kiriathan-Chesedhan union. Beyond that there was no one else.
Except himself. When Nott had suggested it last week, he’d laughed it off. But somehow the notion had stayed on at the back of his mind. For he couldn’t deny his own interest in her—one birthed and discarded over seventeen years ago when, as a young squire to Prince Raynen, he’d first met her, a fairy princess far out of the reach of a swordmaster’s son. . . .
Seeing that the painting was satisfactory, the servants left the two of them staring up at the work. “It reminds me of the tale you and Abramm fought in the Val’Orda that last time,” she said presently.
“That’s why I like it. Reminds me of Eidon’s power to deliver.”
They stood there a moment more, and then she sighed and sank into one of the chairs. “I wish he’d deliver Abramm from this marriage,” she said sourly.
“Well, at least his bride’s been acting better this week.” In fact, the day after Madeleine left, Briellen had apologized—publicly and very prettily—for her dreadful behavior the night of Katahn’s reception and ever after had been excruciatingly sweet and biddable. It seemed not to matter one whit that Abramm wasn’t responding. Though to be fair, Abramm had been very attentive and kind to her, not blunt and rude as he was with those closest to him.
“He doesn’t love her, Trap,” Carissa said.
“They can still make a marriage of it.” Trap settled into the chair beside her.
“Not when she knows he’s in love with her sister. She may resign herself to it, but she’ll never forgive him.” Carissa shook her head. “There’s something dark in her. It’s scary. And she’s so emotional—you never know what she’ll do. He’s a fool if he goes through with this.”
Trap frowned, for he’d thought many of the same things.
“Have you ever seen him more miserable?” Carissa asked.
“Not since he was a slave . . . though that was such a torment for the body, it left little room for torments of the soul. I thought he was going to die then, though. I don’t think he’s going to do that now.”
“Except on the inside.”
He sighed and looked at the painting again. “He has Eidon.”
“Does he?” She leaned toward him, drawing his attention back to herself. “Do you really think this is what Eidon would have him do? Because, to me, it seems more like he’s trying to punish himself. He seemed almost happy when I told him Briellen hated him. And even
he’s got to see that the Chesedhans need this alliance much more than we do. We should be the angry ones threatening to break it off. Yet he won’t even consider asking them to bend on this.” She hesitated. “I’d talk to him myself, but since he didn’t listen to me the first time, I can’t see why he would now.”
Her unspoken request hung in the air between them. Trap shifted uncomfortably, the chair squeaking with his movement.
“Isn’t that why he made you First Minister?” she prodded when he didn’t speak. “So you could tell him things like this?”
She was right. More than that, he was Abramm’s closest friend. That standing alone demanded he speak. For while Carissa had no idea why Abramm might be trying to punish himself, Trap did. In fact, she’d just voiced one side of an argument Trap had been having with himself since the night he’d escorted Briellen back to her chambers. He was just afraid to broach the subject. Given the response he’d gotten to his opinion regarding Abramm’s crippled arm, he didn’t look forward to what would come his way should he challenge Abramm on a matter about which he’d be even more sensitive.
Still, he had to say something.
“I’ll try,” he told her softly. “But don’t expect anything to change.”
————
At two o’clock that afternoon, Trap arrived at the palace for the meeting of the king’s war council, overtaking Simon Kalladorne as he ascended the east-wing stairway.
“So how is he today?” he asked as he came abreast of the man.
The Duke of Waverlan grimaced. “He went rowing again this morning. Four times around. Already chewed out Haldon and Channon and Mason Crull, I hear.”
Which did not bode well for Trap. He shot up another prayer, then shook his head. “I wish I could get him out riding.”
Simon snorted. “Not much chance of that. Full rehearsal’s tomorrow. Wedding guests pouring in. The final fittings. The service tomorrow night . . .” He paused. “How’d your meeting with the Heartlanders go, by the way?”