A Crown of Lilies Page 6

  Within the shelter of the dense forest, the bite of the wind subsided, but it was still miserably, bitterly cold. It took the better part of six hours to track the wolves down. At long last, when the sun was beginning to sink in the sky, my father raised his hand silently. We halted and dismounted, leaving our horses tethered as we pressed forward toward the den. Boots crunched the frozen blanket beneath our feet, clouds of steaming breath fanning out to encircle them. They lounged in the snow, nine fully-grown wolves in their white winter coats. If it weren’t for their gleaming eyes and black noses, I might not have seen them.

  They were beautiful. I hadn’t counted on that. The thought of killing them suddenly seemed wrong, but they had taken two of our herd, and balance had to be maintained. This was the way of the world, I reminded myself. At my father’s signal, we knocked and drew. I picked my target with care; a large male close to me, a clean shot open for his heart. I closed my eyes and offered a desperate prayer. Mother, let me strike true. As one, we loosed.

  I’ll never forget that sound. They yelped as our arrows struck home, a frightened, heart-wrenching sound. Most of our shots landed cleanly, but a few had to be followed up with knives. That was the worst of it, high-pitched whines and terrified snarls, suddenly silenced. For my part, a wave of relief washed over me when I saw my aim was good. He had died quickly. I spared a quick prayer of thanks and knelt by his carcass. One hesitant hand reached out to touch his thick fur, soft beneath my borrowed wool mittens.

  “Are you alright?” James inquired gently as he knelt down beside me in the snow, placing one hand on my arm.

  I forced myself to numbness. “What do I do now?”

  “I’ll help you get him onto your saddle.”

  “No.” The word came out unintentionally harsh. I schooled myself to calm. “I’ll do it.”

  It took every ounce of my strength and I got blood all over my cloak, but I managed it. The others watched silently as I led Valor over and asked him to kneel, as he used to do for me when I was too short for my stirrups. With some rope and a sizable amount of stubbornness, I levered the wolf’s carcass up and over my saddle, lashing him in place on my patient horse’s rump. Valor stood, ears pinned back at the strange weight, and I climbed into my saddle. The rest of our party was waiting, their own already secured in place.

  It was well after dark when we plodded into the courtyard, men and mounts both exhausted from trekking through the snow. Even my proud stallion dragged his hooves, clumps of ice clinging to his mane and my own. We still had to clean our kills. I wasn’t looking forward to that part.

  I unburdened Valor and handed him off to one of the younger stable boys, lingering among the others and waiting for instruction as yet another round of flurries began to fall. My father settled one heavy hand on my shoulder, his eyes full of tenderness that threatened to shatter my resolve.

  “Go. See Amita about some supper. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I can do it,” I said stubbornly, avoiding his gaze.

  “I know you can,” he reassured gently. “So do they.” He nodded to the men around us, who watched me surreptitiously over their shoulders through the dark and the snow.

  “Go on, lass.” I didn’t see who spoke up from among them. It was enough for me. With one last glance at my kill, I turned and fled into the house.

  My mother sat with me as I spooned stew into my mouth with forced indifference.

  “You are not unjustified in your sorrow, Elivya.” Her tone was gentle but pragmatic. “To take a life is a grave act, but if we do not cull the packs, it is our horses who will die instead, and I can assure you that is a much more brutal exit from this world.” I set my spoon down and met her eyes as she pressed on. “In this life, you are prey or predator. Neither state is permanent, but there is no third alternative.” She spoke of more than just the hunt. It was a painful lesson, but one I was well overdue to learn.

  My sorrow faded, replaced by a deeper understanding. We lost no more livestock that winter. At our small Yule celebration, with all our household gathered in the great hall for feasting and dancing, my father presented me with a cloak. Thick wool had been dyed the deep evergreen of our house, the hood and trim lined with white fur. I noticed several pairs of eyes watching from the crowd, the other men from our hunting party.

  “There is a black one as well, but it’s not quite finished.”

  I ran my hand through the pelt sewn into the hood. “Thank you.”

  At seventeen, I was expected to winter at court, and so we went. My parents had given me my freedom for one magnificent year, and I went toward my duties without complaint. Of the fact that one of those duties was to attract suitors, James and I did not speak. To my great relief, I learned that he and his elder brother Seth would be accompanying us to the city as porters and stable hands. Young and selfish as I was, I gave no forethought to the pain it would cause him.

  My father had left a month before us, taking a circuitous route through the provinces of the Lesser Houses of the Lazerin bloodline. Once every few years, he made the trip to reaffirm alliances in Montar, Korent, Erade, and Estia, and offer what assistance he could to our distant brethren. The next trip, he assured me, I would ride with him to learn yet another piece of my responsibilities as heir.

  Due to some difficult foaling, we left late in the season and the journey, though short, was miserably cold. Out of some foolish flare of pride, I insisted on traveling astride. By the end of the first day, I was frozen to my core. As we mounted up to head out on the second day, my mother slipped a pair of dense wool gloves into my hands with an approving smile and wink.

  When we reached the gates of Litheria on the third, we all breathed a sigh of relief. A warm hearth awaited us, and I allowed myself to be wrapped in Greta’s soft embrace. We poured into the house, and Emmett quickly shut out the cold. Father greeted us warmly, having arrived several days before. Once the trunks had been unloaded and the horses stabled, James and Seth shuffled in from the bitter evening air. The former flashed me a grin and a wink while he thawed his hands over the fire. As a family, we dined on a feast of mutton with a variety of rich sides, sharing laughs and news with a good will.

  Though we were all bone-weary from the journey, we talked late into the night over the cold remnants of our meal. Greta fawned over me, fussing unhappily at the tales of our summer at the fort. I will own, those stories were told a bit too liberally by James and Seth, encouraged by too much wine. Preston and Gabe, our two men-at-arms who resided in the city permanently, had undergone the same rigors years ago. As such, they sympathized and shared a few choice anecdotes of their own. Beside them sat my father’s third armsman Quintin, a dour young Tuvrian who had only just joined the service of our House. It was unusual, to see one alone. The militaristic scions of Tuvre largely kept to their own kind, traveling in dedicated legions that contracted with various lords and merchants as need arose. In the levity of our company, he seemed uncomfortable and out of place.

  I watched them all as James retold the story of Trente knocking me unconscious. Gabe looked mildly impressed, and Preston eyed me with concern. Quintin, on the other hand, looked ill. Another quaff of wine helped me to shrug it off, and I turned my attention elsewhere. Shera gossiped happily with our two maids. My mother and father lounged at the head of the table, conversing separately with Emmett, who had relaxed substantially with a glass of Eradine red cradled in his hand.

  As the evening waned, Greta stood and began to clear the table with the aid of Shera, Poppy, and Ellen. Seth never missed a beat as they dodged his wild gestures to collect his plate, relating more second-hand stories to Gabe’s eager ear while Quintin looked dourly on and James beamed in silence. My stubborn masochism during our journey was met with uproarious laughter. The disapproving Tuvrian even cracked a good-natured smirk at Seth’s animated reenactment of my debut the second morning, laden with wools and furs. I had been watching our newest addition and noted his nearly-full wine glass. He had drunk t
o my father’s toast over dinner, but after that, the glass had sat untouched.

  “Do you dislike the wine, armsman?” I asked him with an air of playful taunting.

  He turned to me, his intensely pale blue eyes piercing into mine. He bowed his head in obeisance. “No, miss, it is quite good.”

  “You are not thirsty?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked for a mere second, imperceptible to any but a trained eye. “It is a matter of self-discipline, my lady.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am on duty. Wine dulls the senses.”

  “Surely a single glass would not affect you so.”

  “Perhaps not, but one must restrict oneself to the proper choices befitting their station.” His icy eyes never left mine as a pang of pride resonated in my gut at his subtle barb. I could feel James’ gaze on me, tension settling over the room.

  “And you deem my actions unsuitable to my station?” I asked in a carefully neutral tone.

  He held my gaze a moment longer before ducking his head in another deferential nod. “I would not presume to judge your choices, miss.”

  Quintin stood and excused himself for the evening, baldric rattling as he swept a graceful bow that none of us would have been able to match under the circumstances.

  Gabe leaned across the table toward me. “Don’t pay him any mind,” he murmured apologetically. “He’s from the far country. Tuvrians are strict with their women.”

  Despite the late night and my weary muscles, I slept poorly and woke with the first light. The fire in the small hearth in my quarters still smoldered dimly. Pulling on my breeches and a thick tunic, I rifled through the bottom of my trunk for the rest of my gear. Shera had unpacked most of my things when we first arrived, but some items still sat at the bottom. My books, a pouch of silverleaf, and a few other miscellaneous bits lay scattered around the bundle of my sword-belt. Buckling it into place, I tugged on my boots, tied a heavy wool cloak around my shoulders, and fastened my hair with a leather thong. The house slept silently as I made my way to the rear courtyard, an open-air garden surrounded by the manor on three sides, the fourth by a tall brick wall covered in ivy. A semicircular fountain abutted it, a great tree sculpted at the center of the basin, water running down it in half-frozen rivulets.

  It was another bitterly cold morning, but the garden had been protected from the worst of the snow, and only a light dusting hovered on the frozen grass. Breathing deep, I stretched and drew my sword. Cautious steps felt out my footing as I progressed through the exercises Samson had drilled relentlessly into our heads until we did them in our sleep. There is a kind of meditation in such things, where you surrender your body to itself. It calms your soul, balances you, clears your mind. The knots in my muscles from the journey gradually began to loosen and untie. Before I realized, nearly an hour had passed and my sword was whirring before me in a smooth dance of steel, my feet moving in confident counterpoint. I couldn’t remember feeling the cold, or when it had begun to snow. When I’d finished, I sheathed my blade, shutting my eyes and tilting my head back to welcome the meandering crystals.

  “Your backstroke is sloppy.” I whirled, my hand flying to my sword hilt. Quintin stood in the arcade, arms crossed, eyes sparkling in the chill. He nodded to my belt. “And you have terrible instincts.” He unfolded and crossed the grass to me, grabbing my dagger sheath and tugging it indelicately from the side to the front of my belt. “If your enemy gets your back, you don’t have time for your sword. Keep your dagger at your front. It’s a faster draw, and your body blocks their view.”

  I tested the feel of it, forgetting his initial criticism. “My thanks.” He paused as though he might say something more, but decided against it and merely nodded stiffly and left me alone in the snow.

  A week after our arrival in Litheria, my mother and I went on an outing in the city. Despite our protests, my father insisted that we take one of our men-at-arms. Thankfully, Gabe volunteered to accompany us, else we would have been stuck with Quintin’s scowling visage all afternoon. In short order, we were on our way down the bustling streets toward the tailors’ quarter. Cobblestones clacked under the wheels of the carriage, and I gazed out the window at the throngs of people milling around the myriad shops and houses.

  My mother’s preferred seamstress lived on a remote street of the district, and I admit I was skeptical when we stopped in front of a rather ordinary stone and wood structure that looked much like the houses on either side of it. The only distinguishing feature was a faded wooden sign hanging over the entryway, a needle and bobbin painted on it. My mother led the way without hesitation. Bells jangled as Gabe closed the door behind us.

  “Missus Furgas, I told you, tomorrow!” came a woman’s exasperated voice from behind a floor-to-ceiling rack of bolts of various fabrics. “Unless you want it with only one sleeve-” she stopped short, rounding the shelf to see us. Her face relaxed and brightened in one beautiful moment, and she straightened and bobbed a curtsy. “Lady Lazerin! So wonderful to see you! When did you return to the city?”

  My mother waved her off. “Oh please, Sadie, just Nefira. Only a week past. Didn’t your mother tell you we were coming?” I suddenly realized why she looked familiar. My mother’s preferred seamstress was the grown daughter of Greta and Emmett, the retainers of our city manor. Though I had encountered her as a young child, she had left my parents’ household many years past to wed her husband, a soldier in the King’s Guard at the palace.

  Sadie shook her head and waved a hand. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, I’m a mess this morning.” Her slender frame was wrapped in a perfectly fitted blue linen dress topped with a white sewing apron. A neatly kept brown braid draped down her back. “So what can I do for you? It’s a bit early yet for the Yule Gala, though you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “No, not just yet. We’ve been away a while and I fear we may be a bit out of fashion at Court.” My mother stepped aside to reveal me behind her. “We will both need a few new gowns.”

  Sadie scanned me and nodded, then shifted her eyes to Gabe at my shoulder. “And your man?”

  Mother glanced at him inquiringly and he bowed. “No, madam, thank you.”

  The seamstress nodded and turned back to me. “Let’s get started, then.”

  As it was, the current style in the city was growing more elaborate with every private ball. Tiered, layered, and gathered skirts; lace, ribbon, beading, heavy jewels, and rich patterns were the muses of the season, and Sadie predicted that the Yule Gala would be the crux of the decadence. She jokingly foretold noblewomen being carted into the ballroom, wrapped so many times in so many different adornments that they couldn’t lift their garments, or themselves for that matter, and the entire affair would consist of the whole Court wallowing in heaps of fabric on the floor.

  We spent several hours at the shop, during which the three of us designed numerous gowns; three for Mother and six for myself. When I protested at so many being made for me, she just smiled and reminded me that I would be on display for the winter.

  Despite my initial skepticism, Sadie turned out to be a brilliant designer, sketching sleek concepts that would put me within acceptable range of current fashion but set me apart enough to be noticed. We left in the mid-afternoon, stopping at a few shops to browse for hair ribbons, jewelry, and other trivialities. I begged to visit the smiths’ district, but it was too peculiar a place to be seen, and while I may not be recognized, she surely would. Gabe flashed me a sympathetic grin.

  Instead, our last stop of the day was the great Temple of Adulil at the heart of the city. The three of us made our way up the marble steps and into the vast open-air chamber, the walls covered with intricately carved panels depicting stories from the Book of Days. Two long swaths of the floor were of soil rather than stone, tall golden wheat sprouting from them, swaying in the breeze. Each chaff glowed, ripe for harvest in the late fall chill. These were the last of the crofter’s original fields, long since covered by Litheria’s sprawling
expanse. As such, they were sacred to us, lovingly tended year after year by the priests and priestesses. Together, the two troughs created a golden pathway to the far end of the temple, where a larger-than-life statue of Adulil gazed down at his people. Above our heads, an oculus pierced the dome, afternoon light beaming down to illuminate the altar.

  It was a beautiful, peaceful, sacred place. A solemn tranquility pulsed quietly in my veins as I walked along the wheat, running my hand through the feathered golden mass. Mother paid a priestess for three small sheaves of it tied with delicate white ribbon. Together, we made our offering at His altar, kneeling and placing ours among all the others at His feet. I gazed up at Adulil’s face, flushed with warmth despite the cold marble beneath my knees.

  I wonder what you think of someone like me. My heart and my duty are at odds with one another, and I fear they can never be reconciled. How can I be what I must, and still be me?

  If He had any guidance for me, He kept it to himself.

  We returned home as afternoon gave way to early evening. “There you are!” my father greeted us cheerfully in the foyer. A young man in brown livery stood by, looking bored, a gold quill embroidered on his breast. “Augustus sent his man to invite us to dinner this evening. What do you think?” he winked at me.

  My mother was already pressing a coin into the man’s hand and escorting him out. She turned back to us after shutting the door behind him. “We’ll be expected at seven.”

  “Oh, and Amelie and Reyus Oristei sent an invitation for ten days hence,” Father added. “A small dinner party, it seems.”

  Mother’s eyes glazed, calculating. “They have two sons, no?”

  “Ulrich and Feran,” I intoned absentmindedly, filing through family trees in my memory. Both my parents watched me and waited. “Full livery, I think, to deliver our acceptance.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother smile.

  We had our first public engagement.