Chapter 8
Eight
Alaric shoves me through the tent flap and into the shadowed space, which feels much smaller than it did when I confronted him and Soren before the ceremony.
As Alaric crowds in behind me, I’m surrounded by his wind and leather scent, acutely aware of his formidable bulk.
Everything inside me wants to flee to the opposite corner of the tent, but that’s not what Rowenna would do.
Not what a leader who’s going to save her kingdom would do.
So I stand my ground and glare at him over my shoulder.
“Must you stand so close?”
Alaric sighs and steps back. “What am I supposed to do when you stop so suddenly?”
“I wouldn’t have stopped so suddenly if our accommodations weren’t so repulsive.
” I gesture to the lone blanket spread across the tent floor.
It stinks of sweat and mildew and was, almost certainly, draped across the back of a horse less than an hour ago.
“Not exactly how I pictured my marriage bed…”
“I thought you dirt pushers loved to be covered in grime and animal hair…” Alaric mutters.
“At least we’re covered in something.”
A devious expression flits across Alaric’s features, and he looks me dead in the eyes as he slowly unfastens the decorative chains across his chest. “Is this closer to what you imagined on your wedding night?” He opens the front of his long navy jacket and raises his arms toward the ceiling in an exaggerated stretch, exposing the lean muscles leading down toward his breeches.
I don’t mean to look, but it’s unavoidable in such close quarters, and my cheeks burn with mortification when he catches me.
“What’s the matter, gardener? No more witty jabs?” he drawls as he stoops to unlace his boots.
“Is it that difficult to put on a shirt?” I blurt. “Or are your tailors too unskilled to make them?”
“Of course our tailors can sew a shirt.”
“Then I suppose the problem lies with you. You’re too daft to figure out which holes are for the head and which are for the arms.”
Alaric snorts and looks up, just enough to lock eyes with me from beneath his disheveled hair. “I’ve got your stems all in a tangle, haven’t I? You don’t want to admit you like what you see…”
“The only thing I’d like to see is my sharpest spade buried in your throat.”
“Who knew you were so provocative? I’ve never engaged in that sort of fun, but I’m willing to try anything once…” He gives me another slow, seductive wink, and I lurch back, tripping on that seeds-forsaken horse blanket and landing hard on my backside.
Alaric’s eyes sparkle with laughter. “Don’t play games you can’t win, princess. It makes you look ridiculous.”
“No more ridiculous than you!” I wave my hands at his open jacket again. I don’t know what else to say or do. I’m so far out of my depth, if I were a plant, my roots would be growing up and out of the soil.
Alaric plunks down on the ground, leans over his knees, and considers me.
“You’re clearly not going to drop this, but perhaps you’ll be less uncomfortable with our manner of dress if I educate you.
In Vanzador, our clothing is a mark of our strength and status.
The Fortress is high in the mountains, where the air is cold and thin.
It takes years to adapt to the frigid temperatures.
The highest discipline and self-mastery are required to forgo undershirts. ”
I don’t even try to withhold my snort of laughter. “Why wear anything at all then? Why not run up and down the mountainside naked? Wouldn’t that prove you’re the strongest of all?”
With a heavy sigh, Alaric removes a flask from his breeches and takes a long sip.
“I don’t know why I bothered. You gardeners can’t understand anything more complex than dirt.
” He lies down and folds his hands behind his head.
“Now, if you’re finished mocking my culture, I’d like to sleep. Your presence is exhausting.”
He closes his eyes, as if he really thinks I’m going to let him have the last word.
“This is just the beginning of your exhaustion, dearest husband,” I snap. “You get to enjoy the pleasure of my company for as long as we both shall live.”
“At least it will be more tolerable once we reach Vanzador,” he mumbles.
“Why is that? Because you plan to push me off a cliff, like my sister?”
Alaric’s eyes slit open. “I had nothing to do with Rowenna’s death.”
“Then why haven’t you mentioned her, even once?”
“Why would I?”
“Because you were married to her! Because she was my sister and I look just like her!” I gesture to myself.
“Any semiobservant person with half a conscience would have noticed I’m the spitting image of her on the day you wed.
It should have dredged up memories. Comparisons. Something. But you didn’t even notice.”
Alaric leans up on one elbow and looks me over briefly. “I suppose you do look like her,” he says with an offhanded shrug.
“That’s really all you have to say?”
He groans and takes another long pull from his flask. “Make it stop.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started.” I lean forward, finally on the offensive. “I know you didn’t choose to marry Rowenna, but she was a person. My person. With hopes, dreams, and plans for the future. You were wed for nearly a year, and all you have to say is that you suppose I look like her?”
“What more do you want me to say? That you’re prettier? Because you are.”
“Unbelievable!” I laugh bitterly. “And insulting! I couldn’t care less who you deem prettier.”
Not to mention it isn’t true. There’s a reason every eye was drawn to Ro whenever we entered a room. I am pleasing to look at, but she was impossible to look away from. And if Alaric can’t see that, there’s little point arguing with him.
How did Ro endure being married to him for an entire year? I want to strangle him after less than five minutes. Was she forced to suffer and endure other things too?
“Did you share my sister’s bed?” I suddenly blurt before he can lie back down.
I don’t actually want to know the answer, but I have to know. I need to know just how much she was subjected to.
“Gods, no.” Alaric’s face contorts with horror. “At least…I hope not.”
“What do you mean you hope not? Do you bed so many girls, you can’t tell one from the next? Is that what your guards were referring to when they spoke of your experience?”
“Is that jealousy I detect?” Alaric arches a taunting brow while taking another swig from his flask.
“Or perhaps the problem is you drink too much to remember anything. Give me that.” I snatch the flask.
He flops back down without trying to reclaim it. “You’d drink this much, too, if you were me.”
“Yes, it must be so difficult, being the beloved heir to a prosperous kingdom,” I snap. “Never needing to worry about attacks or invasion, since you can literally crush your enemies with power you amplify by stealing from another kingdom.”
Alaric says nothing. Because he has no defense. But I have plenty more to say.
“You wouldn’t be half as strong without our bagrava. You wouldn’t be able to throw a stone across this tent.”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles wearily, “but whatever it is, I’m sure you’re right.” He sounds like an exhausted parent reasoning with a toddler. He even pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to sleep now. I have a massive headache.”
Before I think about what I’m doing, I lean over and pry his hand away from his face, momentarily forgetting my burns. “No one is sleeping until you tell me what really happened to my sister,” I growl through the pain.”
Alaric jolts free and clutches his arm against his chest as if my touch somehow burned him through his sleeve. “Don’t ever put your hands on me.”
“Then don’t ignore me!”
“Enough! You’re wasting your time with all of your conspiracy theories and vengeful bravado.”
“Why? Because you plan to sabotage my efforts?”
“There’s no need. You won’t find anything that connects me, or anyone else in my country, to Rowenna’s death.”
I fold my arms. “How can you be so sure?”
“Let’s just say Vanzadorians aren’t the most…” He looks up and swirls a hand through the air, searching for the right word. “Forthcoming,” he finally says. “Investigate your sister’s death all you want. It will lead nowhere.”
“Sounds exactly like what someone guilty of murder who doesn’t want me poking around would say,” I retort.
“Tell me, what did I stand to gain by killing Rowenna? Am I free to live as I please?” He gestures to me and the tent with a cruel laugh.
“Your sister’s death got me another sham of a marriage—and to the more obnoxious sister.
At least Rowenna was smart enough to shut her mouth and keep to herself. ”
I shake my head, because there’s no way my sister went quietly to Vanzador. She would have argued and meddled and made Alaric’s life a living hell—just as I am.
“Rowenna was far bolder and more outspoken than I’ll ever be,” I say.
Alaric shrugs. “If you say so.”
I toss my hands with frustration. “How can you sit there and act as if you hardly knew her?”
“Because I didn’t know her at all!” he explodes, eyes flashing. “Do you think I had time to dine with her each night? Or accompany her to social calls and luncheons and however else she filled her days? We were strangers, with separate chambers and beds. Most nights I slept in my study.”
“Did that make it easier?” I ask softly, sounding much calmer than I feel.
“Make what easier?”
“To push her.”
Alaric buries his hands in his hair, and his voice leaks out in a growl. “For the millionth time, I didn’t push her.”
“Then why are you so angry, if you have nothing to hide?”
“Because you’re infuriating!” He rolls to face the wall and adds in a menacing whisper, “I’m far more tempted to shove you off a cliff than I ever was your sister.”
“How romantic,” I coo. “Just what I hoped my husband would whisper on our wedding night.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then what should I call you?”
“Nothing. You have no reason to speak to me. Pretend I don’t exist.”
I’m quiet for several minutes. Long enough to let Alaric think he won. Then I crawl across the tent and position myself directly behind him. So he can feel my breath on the back of his neck when I whisper, “Hopefully I won’t have to pretend you don’t exist much longer.”
Alaric jolts, arms pinwheeling as he yells, “What are you doing? Get away from me!”
But I’m already gone, curled up on the opposite side of the tent, laughing as Rowenna’s boisterous applause lulls me to sleep—the most enchanting lullaby.