Mother of All Page 4

  “What’s his story?” Corlin whispered from the side of his mouth to the cadet standing next to him, whose name he couldn’t remember.

  “Third son,” the cadet whispered back without turning his head. “Runt of the litter. Only allowed into the Citadel because his father’s a duke.” There was an open contempt in his tone that grated on Corlin’s nerves; it certainly wasn’t Rafetyn’s fault he’d been born small. Nor was it his fault his father was a duke. “There’s a pool for how long he’ll last before he’ll go running back to his mama, if you want in.”

  Corlin decided he had no interest in learning the cadet’s name. All bullies inherently reminded him of his uncle Delnamal and landed immediately on his enemies list. He wondered if there was a similar betting pool for him and decided it was likely. Although he had spent nearly his entire life in Aaltah, there was no question that the cadets considered him an outsider. His uncle Tynthanal might have become the Prince Regent of Aaltah, but everyone still saw Corlin as the son of a traitorous, uppity woman with delusions of grandeur, and the grandson of the witch who’d cast the Curse. It did not make for a comfortable and easy acceptance into their ranks, but he was resolved to tough it out.

  Cadet Justal began the sparring session with an intimidating war cry and a vicious, sweeping swing of his sword. The swing showed no grace nor any particular skill, and a cadet of a similar size and strength would parry it easily and use the brute’s momentum against him. Justal’s reliance on his strength and size in place of skill was what had allowed Corlin to last a respectable amount of time in the ring against him. But when fighting someone as small and slight as Rafetyn, brute strength was too great an advantage.

  Rafetyn met Justal’s sword with a smooth parry, but the power behind the blow knocked him back and almost caused him to drop his weapon. He recovered more quickly than Corlin would have expected, once again getting his sword in place for a parry, but Justal was too strong for him. Their blades met and Rafetyn’s arms gave way with the force, leaving Justal an opening to ram the pommel right between his eyes. There was a sickening crunch as the bone and cartilage of Rafetyn’s nose collapsed and blood sprayed. Rafetyn’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he went down.

  Justal let out a whoop of victory, and Corlin saw more than one of the cadets in the circle look at the unconscious boy with sneering disgust instead of sympathy. Someone laughed, but a quick, sharp look from Captain Norlix silenced it.

  Norlix gestured at Corlin. “You. Take him to the healer’s office to get that nose fixed.”

  Corlin’s temper made another attempt to flare into life, but he quelled it. He had a suspicion that Norlix had orchestrated this whole sparring session with the express purpose of scaring him, demonstrating just how rough and unpleasant life as a misfit cadet could be. If Norlix intended it as a message to show Corlin he was unwelcome, then the message had been received loud and clear. But if he thought he was going to frighten Corlin into quitting that quickly, he was in for a rude surprise.

  Rafetyn was conscious and holding his bleeding nose when Corlin reached him, but his eyes had a dull, glazed look in them, and he staggered when he tried to stand. Aware that the rest of the cadets were murmuring to one another—and that what they were saying was not complimentary—Corlin looped Rafetyn’s arm around his own shoulders and helped him to his feet. The circle parted, and, with Corlin supporting the majority of Rafetyn’s weight, they made their way out of the training fields and toward the healer’s office.

  * * *

  —

  On the eve of his official induction as a postulant in the Temple of the Creator, Prince Draios—younger son of King Khalvin of Khalpar—stalked the palace halls in search of his elder brother. He’d been in the midst of packing his belongings—well, supervising the servants who were packing his belongings—when he’d received the devastating message from his father, and it had taken every scrap of self-control he possessed to keep from killing the damn messenger.

  The message had come from the king and been delivered in the form of an official decree, but Draios knew the idea had not sprung from King Khalvin’s brain. The king admired his youngest son’s devotion to the Creator and had been encouraging him for as long as he could remember to enter training for the priesthood as soon as he reached the age of majority. Today was his seventeenth birthday, and he had intended to be comfortably ensconced in the postulants’ dormitory by the time the night was out.

  Draios rounded the corner and stomped into the informal parlor in the residential wing of the palace. The room was empty, but the door to the veranda on the far side of the room was open. Knowing the veranda was Parlommir’s favorite spot to take his repose between council sessions in the heat of a summer day, Draios stopped himself in mid stride and tried to settle his temper. There was no denying he was angry, but the Creator commanded him to show respect for his older brother. It would be preferable if he could feel respect, but lacking that, the best he could hope for was a convincing performance.

  Draios forced himself to walk slowly, almost casually, out onto the veranda.

  As expected, Crown Prince Parlommir was seated in a comfortable chair in the shade. A gentle breeze stirred the auburn locks he had left unbound around his shoulders, but there was nevertheless a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’d been staring into the middle distance when Draios stepped through the doorway, but he abruptly sat up straight and gave his younger brother what could only be described as a wary look. If Draios needed any further evidence that Parlommir was behind this outrage, he now had it.

  “You—” Draios started, but anger choked his voice off in his throat.

  Parlommir held up his hands in a gesture of innocence, though the look in his eyes belied the charade. “I told Father you would blame me for this,” he said with a shake of his head. He rose to his feet and moved to stand by the railing, peering at the gardens below. And not coincidentally putting a little more space between himself and his brother’s anger.

  Draios narrowed his eyes. “So you’re going to sit there and claim it was not your idea to limit my ability to answer my calling?”

  Parlommir gave him a look of supreme condescension. “You can answer your calling just fine! Father assumed—as did I—that you would report to the temple as planned. And surely he mentioned that he had made arrangements with the high priest to accommodate the unique needs of a king’s son.”

  “The needs of a king’s son,” Draios sneered. “As if I am the only king’s son ever to join the priesthood!”

  “Of course you’re not,” Parlommir said in what he undoubtedly thought was a soothing tone. Instead, it sounded like he was talking to a small child or a simpleton. “But until I have a son of my own, you are second in line for the throne, and these are trying times. Father cannot afford for you to completely retreat from the world during your training. Surely you see that. Surely you see there is no insult in that.”

  Draios suffered a nearly unbearable urge to cross the distance between them and give Parlommir a mighty shove. If it weren’t for the possibility that a fall from the veranda might not kill him, Draios wasn’t sure he could have resisted. He stifled a groan, for he would now have to spend the night praying in penance for the sin of wishing his brother dead.

  “How do you expect me to train as a priest while being forced to live apart from my fellow postulants and return to the palace every night?” he asked, and he hated the hint of whining he heard in his own tone. Parlommir had a unique ability to coax that particular sound from him, making him feel like a child when he was now officially a grown man.

  Parlommir smiled at him—an expression that held an almost-believable warmth. It was smiles like those—full of convincingly feigned brotherly affection—that fooled their father into believing Parlommir had Draios’s best interests at heart, when really he wanted to make certain that Draios never exceeded his own place in th
e king’s heart. Their famously pious father had been nearly bursting with pride at Draios’s decision to enter the priesthood, and so Parlommir had whispered in his ear and found a way to sabotage Draios’s good works.

  “I have faith that you will find a way, Little Brother,” Parlommir said. “Surely piety like yours can withstand the challenge.”

  Draios gritted his teeth to stop himself from retorting. The image of shoving Parlommir over that railing once again flashed through his mind. Maybe if the push was delivered just right, the bastard would land on his head and he would break his neck.

  Of course, their father would never, ever forgive Draios if something happened to Parlommir—even something that appeared to be accidental. The king had never looked at him quite the same way since the mysterious death of his fencing tutor when Draios was fourteen years old. Draios had taken great pains to avoid any untoward suspicion falling upon him and was nowhere in the vicinity when the man died. But the healers never were able to pinpoint the cause of death, and his father was very much aware that the tutor had humiliated Draios the day before by thrashing him.

  If it hadn’t been for the unexpected death of Draios’s governess two years earlier—under similar circumstances—Draios thought he would probably have escaped the scrutiny. But though no one could prove he’d had anything to do with either of those unfortunate incidents, he knew both his father and his brother harbored…suspicions.

  He was fairly certain neither of them had any idea that Draios had had anything to do with the recent death of Lord Jalzarnin. Jalzarnin, who had not long ago been the Lord High Priest of Khalpar, and who upon his disgrace had been removed from the position and given the title of High Priest of the Temple of the Creator—the second-highest-ranking member of the clergy! Draios had no interest in studying under a man who was as impious and incompetent as Jalzarnin had proven himself to be, and so he had made sure that a more suitable and holy man held the title when he was ready to become a postulant. But the other two suspicious deaths were more than enough to get him into trouble.

  No. Tempting as the idea of Parlommir falling to his death might be, Draios knew he could not chance it.

  Not trusting himself to speak, Draios turned and marched back into the palace without another word.

  * * *

  —

  Ellin stood patiently as her ladies swarmed over her in a frenzy of plucking and pinning and smoothing. When they’d helped her into the carriage to take her from the royal palace to the Temple of the Creator, they’d barely allowed her to sit down for fear that a stray wrinkle might damage the splendor of the costliest garment that had ever touched her skin. A stunning—if miserably scratchy, heavy, and uncomfortable—bodice of cloth-of-gold was what most drew the eye, but the layers upon layers of embroidered and jewel-studded skirts were of the greatest concern to her ladies, who were most insistent that every flounce lie scrupulously flat and unwrinkled.

  The only one of her ladies who was not obsessed with her dress was Star, who was blinking rapidly and looked as proud as if she were the mother of the bride.

  To make sure her wedding day was as uncomfortable as possible, Star had laced her stays tighter than normal, and Ellin could barely draw in a deep breath, no matter how desperately she needed one. She couldn’t tell if the racing of her heart was born more of excitement or of panic. This wedding was almost two years in the making, and she was having difficulty grasping that the time had finally come. Once, she had dreaded her wedding to Zarsha of Nandel. Then she had longed for it. Now…Well, now she wasn’t entirely sure what she felt, thanks to Prince Waldmir’s distressingly successful attempt to sow discord between them.

  “Give Her Majesty room to breathe,” Star said loudly with an aura of authority that instantly silenced the chattering ladies.

  Ellin felt a couple more strokes and plucks, but the ladies reluctantly backed away.

  “Thank you all,” Ellin said, smiling warmly at the lot of them, though she made special eye contact with Star. Eyes still shining with unshed tears, Star nodded to acknowledge the thanks.

  One of the temple’s acolytes poked his head in the door, eyes downcast in deference—or possibly in concern that he might see something he ought not in the ladies’ retiring room.

  “If it please Your Majesty,” he said, still looking at the floor, “all is ready for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, casting a reluctant glance at the crown she had put off wearing for as long as possible.

  This was only the second wedding of a sovereign queen in Rhozinolm’s history, and Ellin had hoped to wear the crown of her predecessor, Queen Shazinzal, for this ceremony. Unfortunately, although the crown had been well preserved and tended in its place of honor in the Royal Gallery, Shazinzal had apparently been of a more imposing stature than Ellin. The crown was so large that no amount of padding or creative hairdressing could hold it in its proper place. She could have had it cut down to fit, but that would have felt like a violation of Queen Shazinzal’s memory, so Ellin had commissioned a new one to be made in its likeness.

  A queen’s crown was traditionally a dainty thing of filigree and delicate gems, but Shazinzal’s wedding crown—and Ellin’s modified reproduction—could as easily be meant for a king. The points and flourishes were fashioned of solid gold—not a hint of filigree wire in sight—with grape-sized sapphires forming a band around her brow. Star had to use two hands to hold the thing steady as she carefully laid it onto the headdress pinned into Ellin’s hair. The headdress was equipped with clips to hold the crown firmly in place, but Ellin would have to keep her head steady and her chin raised to prevent the weight of it from tearing her hair out if the headdress shifted.

  The Temple of the Creator in Zinolm Well was the second-largest building in all of Rhozinolm, second only to the royal palace. Today, Ellin knew, every seat on the ground floor and first balcony level would be spoken for, and the standing room on the highest level would be packed dangerously tight with those commoners lucky enough to earn a place. For all her roiling emotions, the moment Ellin stepped out of the dressing room door, she would cease to be an ordinary woman with ordinary emotions and would have to don the impenetrable mask of a queen. She closed her eyes, taking as deep a breath as the torturous stays would allow, settling that mask over herself. Then, her courage bolstered, she stepped out into the hallway, where her groom awaited her.

  When she’d first met Zarsha of Nandel, Ellin had been completely immune to his charm and good looks. While every other woman in the court had all but drooled at the sight of him, Ellin had been so resistant to the marriage she was being forced into that she’d found even his good looks vaguely sinister. But now, nearly two years after their first meeting, seeing him in his wedding finery made her breath catch in her throat.

  Although his itinerant life had made Zarsha’s sensibilities very different from those of a typical Nandelite, his taste in clothing had always betrayed his origins. His entire wardrobe consisted of browns and grays and black, with only the most cursory ornamentation, as Nandelites considered ornamentation frivolous. But in marrying her and becoming her prince consort, he was formally leaving the court of Nandel, and he had fully adopted Rhozinolm marriage customs, which decreed that the bride and groom should be a matching set.

  He wore a stunning doublet of cloth-of-gold over embroidered white silk breeches. Sapphires gleamed at cuffs and collar and shoe buckles—the first jewels Ellin had ever seen him wear. There being no custom in place for the headwear of a prince consort, she and Zarsha had decided on the narrow, understated crown of gold and sapphires that circled his brow. A smaller, more muted—and, she thought with a twinge of jealousy, lighter—version of her own. His still unfashionably short blond hair was slicked back from his face, leaving center stage to the shockingly blue eyes she had once found so cold and off-putting.

  Zarsha grinned at her too-obvious appreciation, holdi
ng his hands out from his sides and turning a slow circle, to the amusement of their gathered attendants. Ellin gave a huff of exasperation, though the heat in her cheeks suggested she was blushing.

  His grin was not as easy as it once had been—she had the distinct impression he was performing for their audience rather than for her—but even so the familiarity of the teasing eased the knot of tension in her belly.

  “I tried to imagine you in something other than black, gray, or brown,” she said, “but I found I couldn’t do it. I might almost suspect you to be an imposter, did I not know better.”

  He bowed, and she was gratified to see the stiffness of the gesture. He might not be suffering with the weight of his crown, but at least he was feeling the constriction of the cloth-of-gold. Ellin understood the importance of ceremony, and there was no question that the royal wedding was an occasion requiring showmanship and ostentation, but she couldn’t help wishing that the clothing did not have to be so terribly uncomfortable. Or at least that she did not have to wear it through the long ceremony, the even longer procession through the streets of Rhozinolm afterward, or the nearly endless reception at the palace after that.

  “I must admit, Your Majesty,” Zarsha said as he straightened, “I suspected much the same when I saw my image in the mirror.” His eyes took her in from head to toe, and though their relationship had been somewhat strained since their engagement, she could not miss the appreciation in his gaze. “You look…resplendent.”

  “I think you mean uncomfortable,” she quipped, and he laughed. If he was feeling any of the nerves that grooms were supposed to feel on their wedding day, he was, as always, hiding it well. She, on the other hand, felt as if a school of minnows was swimming frantically around inside her stomach.

  Zarsha stepped close to her, taking her hands and lowering his voice, although the echoing hall did not afford them much in the way of privacy. “We are in this together,” he said urgently, squeezing her hands and staring intently into her eyes. “Now and always.”