A Crown of Lilies Page 2

  I tried for well over an hour. Samson left me there after watching the first twenty attempts and scoffing at my failure. “Call for me again when you manage it,” he snarled as his heavy boot steps receded into the manor. I didn’t start crying until I was sure he was gone. Even as I wept in frustration, I kept at it. The mare shied at my repeated attempts and danced away from me until I finally resigned myself to a hopeless heap on the ground. My legs cramped and my gut burned with the humiliation of my abysmal failure.

  “I didn’t think you’d ever give it up!” I turned to see a young man, only a few years older than I, leaning against the stables with a half-eaten apple in his hand. His reddish-brown hair and sparsely freckled face marked him as one of the stablemaster’s offspring. He gestured at the skittish mare. “Would you like to see a trick?”

  My jaw clenched, my pride aching to see him standing there watching me make a fool of myself. He waited for an answer, munching on another mouthful of apple.

  When I didn’t reply, he shoved off the wall and crossed the courtyard muttering, “I’ll take that as a yes.” He approached the mare, who eyed him suspiciously but held her ground. He extended the remnants of his apple in one palm. “Easy now, old girl,” he murmured to her. After a brief hesitation, she toed forward and pushed her muzzle to his hand. She settled into him and I watched, unimpressed, as he rubbed her head and neck. Such tricks were child’s play, common tools to calm spooked horses. What happened next, I did not expect.

  The stable boy moved to the mare’s side, rubbing her neck in circles and crooning as he adjusted the reins higher on her neck and pulled them gently down with a hand near her bit. He moved his free hand to her withers and applied gentle pressure as one booted foot tapped her front hoof. I watched in astonishment as the beige mare slowly knelt down on her front knees, blowing out her nose in soft whinnies. He rubbed her again in encouragement and climbed carefully onto her back. With a pat to her neck and a few clicks of his tongue, she stood straight again, calm as ever.

  I stared with my mouth agape.

  Needless to say, I practically begged him to show me. His name was James, and we quickly became friends.

  He offered to teach me to ride astride, to which I agreed wholeheartedly, glad for an alternative to Samson’s cruel lessons. I’d enough experience by then to keep my seat, but I wanted more. I wanted what I’d seen in the training fields. James might not have been a Lazerin by blood, but he was born to the saddle. For months, he rewarded my progress with a whoop of joy or a cheer, and when I struggled, only offered more encouragement and a quick smile. He was a patient teacher, and I an enthusiastic student. Samson never mentioned my change of instruction, glad, I’m sure, to be rid of me.

  Then came the late summer rains, and the priest Izikiel, an older man with a well-worn face and a gentle disposition. Pale green robes flowed like clouds about him, his wrists and hair twined with vines. At my father’s request, he had come to administer my Bronnadh, my passage from childhood into the path to adulthood. As I gradually approached the age to begin attending Court, my parents deemed it fit to provide me with a thorough religious education. It was an old tradition, one I later discovered that few of the other noble Houses kept anymore, but the first sons and daughters of Lazerin had walked with Adulil to learn the land, and so must I.

  For a year, I wandered the vast grounds of the Lazerin estate and its surrounding forests with the priest Izikiel. He taught me much in that time, not only of Adulil and his Six, but of the Mother and Her gifts. I grew in many ways that year, and when he left us the following summer, I missed him terribly. As I watched him disappear into the morning mists, I fingered the vine bindings about my wrists and prayed to the Mother that She keep him safe.

  That afternoon, still in the white robes of my Bronnadh, my father came to me in the garden as I prayed before my family’s Great Oak. He smiled and beckoned.

  “I have a gift for you.”

  In the courtyard, the stablemaster was waiting with a dappled gray yearling. The beast shied at every move and danced angrily across the stones with nostrils flaring. I looked to my father, not daring to hope.

  “He’s a young one, but Stephan’s boys will help you break him to the saddle. I know you are fond of James. Perhaps he will teach you.” His eyes, which had been wandering anywhere but to mine, finally looked down to me. “You are a Lazerin,” he added stiffly. “I won’t have my heir riding some mud-bred carthorse.”

  After expressing my thanks with enthusiasm, I held out my palm and hummed one of Izikiel’s wandering tunes as I slowly approached. “Leave him, please,” I smiled gently at our skeptical stablemaster. After a moment of hesitation and a glance toward my father for permission, he dropped the lead rope and backed away. I continued crooning to the silver tempest, halting a few steps away. There I stood for long moments, humming softly until, step by cautious step, the horse approached and pushed his muzzle into my hand.

  “Hello, proud boy,” I murmured with a smile. “You’ve a bit of fire in you.” I moved slowly about him, rubbing him down with my hands and murmuring sweet nothings to him. Dark eyes watched me closely, but he tolerated my touch without much more fuss than an irritated flick of his skin. Broad chested and wide-backed, he was an impressive animal, feathered hocks a nod to his breeding.

  “Sired by Midnight,” my father supplied as I made my introduction. To be given one of his warhorse’s offspring was a great honor and a bit of a surprise. Women rode palfreys, and my gray tempest was far removed from that. “Don’t get overexcited,” he tempered. “He’s a half-breed; a warmblood.”

  My heart swelled with gratitude and joy. “He’s perfect.”

  “You’re not going to try breaking him in that, are you?” James called from somewhere nearby, his voice notably deeper than I remembered. I turned to see him leaning against the barn with his arms crossed. He nodded at my robes. “Pretty, but impractical.”

  I glanced down at my garb, remembering that I still had leaves and vines twisted in my hair, and blushed. That day, after a change of attire, I watched and learned as the stable hands started the process of breaking my new dappled stallion to the saddle. He represented everything I wanted, my beautiful gray beast. He reminded me of my rightful place as the heir to my House and the son that my father could not have. Then, ten years old and bull-headed as I was, I did not doubt my invincibility. What child does? I named my stallion Valor so I would not forget.

  The following years were a muddled toss of events. Daily outings with James molded me into an exceptional rider. Valor and I grew into a single being, and when we raced James and his painted gelding, it was as if we flew. I grew in both stature and maturity, but my ambitions for soldiery remained. Every spring, I begged my father to let me join the conscripts in training. Every spring, he declined. At the time, I suspected it was my mother’s doing that kept him from submitting to my request. As I grew older, she became notably more and more concerned at my lack of propriety and demanded I spend hours each day studying the niceties of my station. I learned everything from dancing to etiquette to sewing under her tutelage. Looking back, it was my father’s legacy she feared for most, and my tender age that kept him from letting me train at the garrison. Everything, the future of my entire House, rested on my intractable shoulders.

  I was fourteen when, one day, she began to teach me more.

  “I know you are your father’s child,” she opened carefully, tension in her voice. “But there are things that, as a woman, you should know for your own benefit. Men will think you either a pawn or a plaything, and dismiss you as such.” I narrowed my eyes in confusion. My parents had always had a strong bond between them. “Your father is a rare man and sees this folly. It is why I love him. There are few others.”

  “I don’t understand,” I admitted quietly when she paused for a long moment.

  “You can use this weakness to your benefit and to the benefit of your House. Where war is a man’s business, intrigue belongs to women.
You do not need to join the cavalry to fight, my dear.”

  I learned the most effective way to move silently and disappear into a crowd. I learned how to listen beneath words, read behind masks, and draw out information. She taught me to see, not just look; to anticipate, rather than react. It was the barest foundation of what I would spend years studying at her side.

  In the fall of my fifteenth year, my family received a garish invitation to the King’s fortieth natal celebration. After much discussion, my mother convinced my father that it was time I be presented at Court. I smiled, sadly, from my hiding place outside the door of my father’s study. I was proud to be considered a woman, but the hint of sorrow in my father’s voice made the moment bittersweet.

  A few days later, we took a stifling carriage journey three days east to the gleaming capital of Alesia. Litheria is a city of light, with white stone walls and thousands of lanterns lit every night by its proud citizens to illuminate the streets. We clattered across the cobblestones and I gaped out the window as we passed by the temple square. Priests and supplicants filed in and out of the Temple of Adulil, vendors outside hawking various offerings of incense and late-blooming flowers. Towering in the distance stood Crofter’s Castle, a modest name for a resplendent structure of dazzling white stone. Expanded at various times throughout history, it bristled with a variety of turrets and balconies, its patchwork edifice surrounded by high walls and gates well-guarded. In my studies, I had learned that it was once a very humble structure. It awed me to think that this grand city had grown from a hovel and its surrounding fields.

  We passed into the Noble quarter and a flurry of wealthy manors blurred by before we arrived at our own urban residence. Brimming with excitement, I flung open the carriage door and dropped gratefully from the stuffy cage.

  Stretching the stiffness from my limbs, I took in the second home I’d not seen since I was a small child. We had pulled through a small gated entryway and up a cobblestone drive to the sizable courtyard in which I stood. Up a few steps sat a two-story house of red stone; not gaudy with overly lavish accents, as some of the nearby homes were, but elegant enough to befit one of the Seven Great Houses. A deep green banner hung above the heavy wooden doors, our family crest emblazoned in gold thread.

  “Look how you’ve grown!” exclaimed Greta, a short round woman with a stern face. She looked exactly the same as I remembered as she threw out her arms and rushed down the steps to embrace me. An assault of questions soon followed, to which she waited for no answer.

  Her husband Emmett held the door, a rather reserved older man with perfect posture in his immaculate green livery. Stepping past him into the house, I spun, taking in the tapestries and dark wooden staircase that led from the foyer up to the living quarters. The glass chandelier high above clinked as the breeze followed us in. All of the windows had been thrown wide to the warm evening air, the curtains tied and the wall sconces ablaze.

  The night of King Amenon’s gala arrived quickly, and I suffered Greta’s attentions for hours as she transformed my tangled heap of sable hair into an elegant updo. My off-white dress symbolized my introduction at Court, with a modest cut and delicate lace capped sleeves. Green ribbons wove through my hair, and small emeralds dangled from my ears. My mother joined us as I slipped into my shoes, dismissing Greta with thanks. Catching my eye in the mirror, she settled her hands lightly on my shoulders and gave me a warm smile.

  “You look beautiful,” she said softly. “Are you ready?” I nodded.

  The servants waited in the foyer to send us off. Greta cried, kissed me and wished me luck a hundred times, fidgeting with my hair until I managed to convince her that it was perfect. Our maids, Ellen and Poppy, squealed with delight over my dress. Emmett managed a smile and a courtly bow to the three of us. I ducked out of Greta’s fussing attentions to follow my parents to the carriage.

  “Elivya!” called a voice nearby, and I stopped halfway down the steps to see James jog over from the stables. He halted abruptly before me, sizing me up as he shook his head with a whistle. A mischievous grin flashed across his face. “Don’t trip.” With a withering scowl, I moved to throttle him, but my father’s voice sounded in warning and instead I climbed obediently into the carriage.

  The gala was a resplendent affair, full of lantern light and music. We were announced at the entrance to the ballroom, and most attendees turned to see as I was introduced formally to the Court. Many applauded politely. Flushing under the scrutiny of so many eyes, I followed my parents down the staircase, escorted by a court attendant in crisp white livery. We made our way to the head of the room, where the King stood amidst a rabble of admiring nobles and piles of gifts. Spotting us, he broke off from the others, striding toward us to grasp my father’s hand with a genuine smile.

  “Damien, my old friend.”

  “Your Majesty, how wonderful to see you.” My father bowed over their clasped hands.

  “Please, leave off the formalities,” he dismissed. “Tonight, I am simply your host.”

  “As you wish, sire.” King Amenon was a curious man, at once radiating a quiet energy and commanding respect, though I sensed a deep sadness within him. He stood tall and straight, with golden hair and haunted eyes the color of polished brass. My father gestured to us. “My wife, of course, you know.” They exchanged pleasantries and presented the King with our gift before my father turned to me. “And may I present my daughter and heir, Miss Elivya fen Lazerin.”

  He beamed proudly as I stepped forward to curtsy as deeply and gracefully as I could manage. My skin prickled at the surreptitious eyes on me. I daresay, had my father not been so close to the King, my debut at his natality would have been taken as audacious and disrespectful. Even with their history of friendship and respect, there were still whispers. Such a bold introduction would attract attention, and if I performed adequately, would widen my prospects as well. Sometimes gossip works to one’s advantage.

  Amenon bowed slightly in acknowledgment, taking stock of me. I flushed under his regard but held his gaze in my stubbornness. “I am most pleased for you,” he intoned politely, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  We excused ourselves to join the festivities. I was a bit unsure whether or not I liked our king. Throughout my childhood, my father had told stories of him, tales of his great victories and defining moments as regent. There is always a difference, I have found, between a man and his legend. Putting it out of my head, I followed my mother’s advice and wandered through the crowd, making myself available to be pulled into conversation. I stretched my theoretical legs in all my mother had taught me, and gracefully displayed the extent of my knowledge; everything from politics and literature to trade agreements, careful not to tread on more than the acceptably controversial topics, and always with as much humility as I could muster. It was altogether exhausting.

  As I took a moment of respite near the edge of the room, I observed the other young ladies in the crowd. I was surely the youngest, but there were others only a year or so my elder. Dressed in rich gowns cut to the curves of their blossoming bodies, their mannerisms were delicate and feminine, their every gesture a display of sensual grace. Watching the noblemen fawn over them, I felt clumsy and young, acutely aware of the modest cut of my gown and the boyishness of my figure. Their intricate game of courtship remained the focus of my brooding attention for several minutes before I realized that a young man had sidled over to the wall beside me.

  “Bunch of preened peacocks, wouldn’t you say?”

  I started, turned my head, and saw Aubrey ben Chamberlain for the first time. His brown hair was tousled carelessly, his jacket unbuttoned. In his hand he held a glass of deep red wine, another extended to me with a smile. I liked him immediately.

  “Indeed,” I agreed, accepting the proffered glass and taking a drink. It was sour, bitter, and tasted much worse than it smelled, but I liked it anyway.

  He slouched against the wall. “I hate these bloody things, but of course, who i
n the Seven Houses misses the King’s birthday?”

  I eyed him. “You’re the Royal Poet’s son, aren’t you?”

  He pushed off the wall and spun to face me with playful grace, sweeping a sarcastic bow. “Aubrey ben Chamberlain, son of Augustus ben Chamberlain, the King’s Poet.” He straightened with flare and pointed at me with his glass. “And you are the girl-heir of House Lazerin.”

  I nodded and raised mine in confirmation. “Elivya. Just Elivya.”

  Rims met with a delicate chime. “Yes, please, just Aubrey.” He returned to his post at my side and took another drink.

  “Well, Aubrey, what is it you want with me?” I asked after another sip.

  “I thought I should intervene before you decided to set something on fire. You’ve been staring daggers for a while now.”

  It made me laugh. “Daggers, I doubt.” I sobered, twisting my mouth in distaste as I watched a voluptuous brunette fend off several advances. “I am simply realizing my lack of…marketable qualities.”

  He considered me. “Different is not always a bad thing. I know very few women who can discuss trade agreements with such dexterity.”

  I eyed him sidelong. “Eavesdropping?”

  He chuckled. “Only in passing.”

  I spotted my parents talking with a pair of nobles dressed in matching russet garb. “My mother is teaching me. She handles most of our bookkeeping. Bloodlines and the like.”

  “And you are intrigued by such things?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose. I am heir to my House. They are things I must know.”

  “We all learn our trades,” he acknowledged. We stood in amicable silence a while, sipping our wine. Suddenly, a robust man pushed his way through the crowd to approach us with a broad grin. Aubrey straightened, tugging his disheveled jacket into some semblance of order.