Crown of Gold and Ruin, page 7
“Your Highness?” Cassia’s voice brought him back to reality.
“Yes, my lady?” Jaden grinned at her in a nonchalance he did not feel, his wound throbbing beneath his tunic. Glenn and his pretty companion had disappeared, presumably to his bedchamber, and Saskien was busy tucking into a heaped plate of food.
“Have you missed me, my prince?” Cassia dimpled at him. Her eyes were black, ringed with kohl, and they twinkled at him now teasingly.
“I have indeed. I was grieved when Saskien did not mention you had accompanied him to the capital from Ferinsmere,” he said, referring to the northern port city the Jahalars ruled over.
“When would I ever miss a Saturnalia revel? And your sister’s betrothal? Not a chance!” She took a delicate bite of a sweetmeat, and her fingers grazed his thigh under the table.
Jaden knew half the court expected him to marry Cassia Jahalar, for she was the daughter of the king’s most loyal, wealthiest bannerman; they had known each other for years, and recently, they had ventured far beyond the bounds of mere friendship. He also knew Cassia’s father, the portly, wine-faced Lord Pergeus, had been suggesting the match for months to Flavian, whispering in the monarch’s ear with sly glances at Jaden. If his plan succeeded, Cassia would one day become queen of Eria. Jaden looked at her now, his prospective bride, the candlelight casting her high cheekbones into sharp relief, her slightly upturned nose granting pleasing appeal to her dark-eyed, olive-skinned face. Her headdress, fashioned like filaments of gold chain mail fastened by a ruby brooch, held back her long hair.
She lowered her gaze, black lashes fluttering against rouged skin. He could not help but scour the hall again for Scythe, and the sizzle of personality she had shown in the moments of their meeting, an intriguing disposition transmuted in the brazenness of her green eyes, which did not waver from his.
“Aren’t you hungry, Cass?” he gestured at her untouched plate.
“Not really,” she murmured. “I am feeling a bit tired, so would you be so kind as to escort me to my carriage, Your Highness?”
It had always been their code. “Of course,” he said, all ominous thoughts of Bjornanns and slave-killers momentarily forgotten, and they rose to leave, Saskien staring at them with narrowed eyes. Jaden cast a final look at Diana and was glad to see Vralen standing beside her protectively as she spoke with Galahad.
As Jaden and Cassia exited the clattering, wine-scented hall, Jaden noticed many eyes on them. He also noticed Flavian glaring. The king would rather his son marry a princess from another kingdom to further alliances. His liaison with Cassia, Jaden knew, infuriated Flavian tremendously. For this reason, Jaden tucked his arm protectively around Cassia, and she leaned into it, giggling and whispering in his ear. They both exulted in making the wheels of gossip spin.
“Oh, I almost forgot to mention,” she said conspiratorially, as they entered an empty corridor, red flame crackling within bronze torches, “I saw Trystan entering the city as I was leaving our manor. I wonder what business called the him away from the palace?” She raised her eyebrows speculatively. Like all others, she knew about the rivalry between the royal brothers, as well as the rumors surrounding Trystan and the cold, murky scent of distrust coiling around him, his moody dark stares and his silver daggers that could maim and dismember. “I heard the guards whispering about how they noticed him leaving the palace most nights of the week, heading for the slum-areas of Elenon.”
“Is that so?” Jaden filed away this piece of information for later, determined to find out where his brother had ventured. “Thank you for telling me, my dearest spy,” he laughed.
Thunder blared menacingly, the black bowl of the sky sparking with lightning, as Jaden pressed Cassia against a marble column, her body warm and soft behind the cool, perfumed silk of her rose-colored togara. Their lips melted together, her tongue warm in his mouth.
“My prince,” she murmured.
The rain continued to thrum down in the gardens outside, freezing droplets of rain speckling Jaden’s skin as Cassia ran her hands through his hair, and he abandoned himself to his lover.
Gwyn Gendelson had started screaming again.
* * *
It was still pouring outside, ominous thunder livid in the air, as Galahad Rivier, slaughterer of eight hundred slaves, was escorted to his chambers by Diana through the gloom of the Lionskeep rather than the now drenched olive gardens. They were cagily followed by two members of Vralen’s royal guard. Rivier might be an honored guest, but Flavian still would not risk the safety of his daughter by leaving her alone with a notorious murderer. I wonder how that will work when I am sharing this man’s bed, she thought in a bitter burst of rancor.
Arm-in-arm with the silent, albeit courteous Galahad as they strolled, Diana was blinking tears out of her eyes, both of fury and fear. Her Choosing Ceremony was to be a complete farce, for Flavian had already decided whom she would wed.
“Prince Galahad is the heir to the throne of Kordonia, and he has an army of ten thousand at his back. When his mother succumbs to old age, exile or not, he will be the lord of one of the most powerful nations in the land, Diana,” Flavian had explained in a rare show of transparency, designed cleverly, Diana thought, for Galahad’s benefit, his dark eyes drinking her in as her father lectured her on the legacy she must uphold, on the war she was helping win with this marriage. “When you are Queen of Kordonia, then the two mightiest nations west of the Hinterpeak Mountains will be as one, and we will be one prevalent step closer to Rion and the empire throne. And he is a young man, handsome, and will be most fitting for you as a husband.”
“Then what is the point even of having a Choosing, Father?” she had asked, steadfastly ignoring Galahad swigging crimson wine from a skull-shaped bronze goblet behind her, his eyes never leaving her. “It seems a waste of coin to spend so much on a grand party that is an utter charade, does it not?”
“It is these grand parties that keep Elenon ticking along smoothly, daughter. They fabricate the royal family’s upholding of tradition and honor to the scrutiny of our many subjects, shameless liars and schemers, though many of them are. Parties keep my people occupied, and convinced we care a fig for their entertainment and well-being. We don’t want to ruin that perception now, do we?” her father had asked, flintstone eyes trained on her dauntingly.
She had swallowed her protests and intoned, “No, Father.”
Now, she escorted Galahad to the outer halls that led to the guest rooms, and the exiled Prince of Kordonia turned to her. He towered over her, his black hair cut short to reveal the hard lines of his face, in which the lips were oddly full and soft, almost feminine.
“You who are to be my queen, I thank for escorting me,” he started in halting Rhonan, heavily accented with the guttural tones of the Kordonian language, his steel voice full of alien nuances. “I have lived half my life in the desert wilderness of my country, so navigating such a lush palace as this is beyond my abilities.” He leaned in slowly, smelling of leather and musk, and Di heard the guardsmen’s armor clanking behind them as they snapped to attention, wary of this foreign killer so close to his princess. “You are one of the loveliest women I have seen, Eria’s Princess.”
“Thank you,” she replied coldly. Their walk had been yet another farce, for Flavian had asked Diana to usher their guest to his quarters so they could get to know one another, but in truth it had been naught but an artful compliment to Galahad, that the King of Gold so freely offered his daughter. She gritted her teeth at this affront, thinking of all the courtiers and servants who had seen them walk arm-in-arm to a private bedchamber—she imagined the wings of gossip flexing and then soaring, dappling her repute with promiscuity.
She inclined her head, conscious of her own rudeness—she would, after all, have enough time to be cordial once they were wed—and began to turn away to return to the dining hall. But Galahad wrapped his fingers around her arm, a grip behind which she felt the ripples of his strength. The guardsmen’s hands were now poised on the hilt of their swords.
Then Gwyn Gendelson started screaming again, gruff bellows of pain, and Diana watched as her betrothed snapped to attention. He released her and, with a sharp incline of his head, had started striding away from the bedchamber to which she had led him. He went towards the dungeons, as if the tang of torment swelling through the marble palace called to him.
“Diana?” A soft voice spoke from the shadows in an alcove, followed by the figure of Jaime Vathek, his brown curls all a-tousle.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, collecting herself and waving away the guards, for she would always be safe with Jaime.
The heir to Ravenhall came forward and wrapped his arm in Diana’s shawl-clad one, his skin thrummingly warm between the layers of silk. There was a slight flush on his cheeks as Diana stared up at him, the candlelight flickering in gusts of wind, plunging the corridor into wavering darkness.
“Jaime?” Diana ventured when her friend still had not deigned to answer.
His eyes were fixated on the corridor stretching beyond to the gloom into which Galahad had disappeared, the gloom from which screams of torment continued to emanate, though lower now, as if someone had shut a door somewhere in the maze of palace between the dungeons and the guest chambers. “Forgive me,” he murmured. He, too, seemed to collect himself. “I followed you from the great hall in an attempt to protect you from the hulking stranger whose arm you held.”
She felt a well of affection for him, fresh and clean as a mountain spring. I wonder, if I ask him to saddle horses with me and flee this palace, would he?
“Father is going to marry me to that stranger,” Diana said, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. It was as if a great rift had rent within her, gashed open at Glenn’s horrifying story of Galahad killing eight hundred innocents. She had once overheard a betrothed lady confiding in one of Diana’s own maidservants that arranged marriages were like the sky and trees, which had harbored you all your life, suddenly crumbling down to dust, leaving a tall and unknown figure lurking in their wake. The maid had, of course, assured the lady she would find happiness.
Jaime clutched her arm tighter, seemingly lost for words, and they wandered out from the atrium into the gardens. The rain had finally ceased to a frugal and skittering drizzle, and Jaime’s arm remained warm and steady about her shoulders as the princess lifted her face to taste the raindrops seeping to her lips.
Diana supposed her own sky and trees were falling now, had been falling for a while, yet she had not known the mayhem it foretold until a chunk of that sky had fallen right on her.
She did not expect Jaime to break their silence, but he did, his voice stringent with sudden urgency as he spun her to face him, as if the raindrops had granted him courage. “We have lived all our lives swayed and spun this way and that at the whims and wishes of those around us.” She raised her eyebrows quizzically, but he plowed on, “I speak not just of you, who will walk into marriage with a murderer, for it has been ground into you that it is your duty. I do not speak for myself either, swallowing protest and disgust day after day as my father continues his streaks of torture, murder, and disregard. I speak of all Eria’s youth, Princess, from Saskien Jahalar to your own brother who grits his teeth and practices his sword-work as the seasons turn, as if there is naught else a prince could be doing. As if we all do not know the stories of his tormented, bloody boyhood, as if all do not know that heavy boots have crushed his zeal and rage into mush until he is a picture-perfect son.”
“I do not see what you mean,” she replied as he drew breath, hastily for fear he would renew his urgent torrent of words, so unlike his characteristic, court-correct quiet. His onyx eyes were bright with moonlight, for a moon had slid from behind clouds to illumine the drenched palace gardens. “You speak of my brother and my family, and I assume the ‘heavy boots’ belong to my father, in which case you have no right to be speaking in such tones, Jaime. And, of course, I will marry Galahad, for that is what—”
“For that is what has been drilled into you, and you are thoughtlessly following it,” he finished for her. “What I am saying is …” he breathed, hissing through tightened lips as if calming himself. “We all take our lives of idyll for granted. If we do not react to where and to what we are being swayed and pushed, when your brother takes his crown in the years to come, we will craft a kingdom all too similar to King Flavian’s.”
“And what is wrong with my father’s kingdom, Jaime?” Diana asked, propping her hands on her hips, feeling her voice grow cool.
He swallowed hard then, glancing back toward the darkness of the guest hallways. “All I ask, Princess, is for you to open your eyes a little wider, and if you will not resist your circumstances, at least take it into your own hands, at least take control of it before it consumes you. There are many ways a beautiful girl can control a man such as Galahad Rivier.” He backed away suddenly, shaking his head as if he had said too much. “There are also many ways for you to avoid falling into his clutches. You are just too afraid, too tamed and caged, to attempt them.”
His words echoed like stones dropping into a cavern; they ate at her with their truth. But instead of admitting to this, she stalked after him until their noses were separated by a finger’s distance, until her own hands shook beneath her shawl that shrouded her from all the world. “How dare you try to command me, Jaime Vathek?”
He flushed, but leaned forward, his breath hot and soft, their noses pressed together. “Forgive me the intrusion into your flawless world,” he murmured and drew back so abruptly she nearly fell backward to collide with the balcony. “Nothing remains the same without cracks appearing, Di,” he said, before turning and stalking away through the rain.
This time, she did not attempt to follow. She had felt that a chunk of sky had finally fallen on her at the prospect of marrying Galahad, but now she felt a comforting plush rug had been yanked out from beneath her as well, harshly and without warning. Jaime was not the quiet, unassuming man she had always seen. She had not thought to look behind the veneer, the façade; she had not wanted to. She did not want to spot those ruptured cracks he had spoken of.
Resist her circumstances? Take matters into her own hands? How could she, when her father was the King of Gold? She remembered what happened to Jaden when he had dared defy Flavian, past the dropping of a few acerbic comments.
The rain’s softness had contorted yet again to thrashing torrents. As she dashed for cover, she spied Jaden’s golden hair in the gloom beneath a salt-streaked pillar, pressing Cassia Jahalar into the marble, their mouths crushed together in a deep kiss.
Until heavy boots crushed his zeal and rage into mush until he is a picture-perfect son.
That part of Jaime’s sudden outburst rang all too true, for Jaden, despite his bottled anger and flimsy pretenses at rebellion—one such example was his affair with Cassia—had been tamed and tempered well, like all the kingdom that spread around them in circles was, to fit perfectly in Flavian’s closed fist.
* * *
When Jaden slid off Cassia and onto his pillows, lips joining for a brief kiss which ended as she fell asleep, Jaden too sank gratefully into a deep slumber that eagerly swallowed him. Then the dreams flickered to life.
For what seemed like many ages of the world, he lay helpless and wrapped in the stuff of dreams, a gray-white nothingness. The nightmares invaded as sudden as a god’s will, a tumult of clawed demons that chased him down muddy tunnels that never ended. When his dream-feet finally faltered and his chest was heavier for lack of air, he stumbled. His last vision in the world of dreams was of a hulking monstrosity with cold blue eyes leering above him, while a bloody axe hurtled down to pierce his heart.
Jaden jolted awake, tangled in the bedspread. Gasping, he hurled himself upright and snatched the goblet of water off his bedside table, his throat parched. The goblet was empty. Cursing under his breath, he swung his legs off the bed, feeling the coldness of the stone beneath his bare feet.
His wound was aching; a sword thrust deep into him with every movement. He pulled up the corner of his tunic, wondering why it refused to heal. The gash remained as ugly and stubborn as ever, slashed into the tanned skin there like a brand. But it wasn’t red, as wounds were supposed to be; instead, it was a deep, purple shade. It was not the color of bruises either, but of a stormy sky slipping into the twilight. Sighing, he let the tunic drop back into place. It would heal; it was just taking a long time, but it would heal. Wouldn’t it?
He heard Cassia’s soft breathing on the other side of the bed, her shoulder limned by moonlight over the rumpled sheets. His bedchamber was steeped in darkness, only the tiniest bit of moonlight edging in through a slip in the window-drapes to illuminate odd corners. It looked like most chambers in the Lionskeep did, a large area choked with heavy dark furniture, the floor lacking a carpet. But it bore the signs of Jaden having lived in it for nearly his entire life: his lyre and music books lying together on a table laden with other histories and novels, the little wooden soldiers he had played with when he was younger stacked neatly in a pyramid beneath the window.
He clambered out of bed and slid to the window, nudging the thick draperies aside. The storm had broken, and the clouds were parting to give way to the two moons of the world that floated beside each other, the goddess sisters who battled the night’s darkness. The bright sphere was Callira, the mistress of magic, archery, and sailors. The indistinct, slightly reddish crescent was her younger sister, Ithilia, patroness of renegades, assassins, and lovers.
