Chapter XVI
XVI
You know how devoutly I have hoped to find a wolf among the pups I’ve sired.
Today’s events have assured me that my eldest, Carian, is that wolf.
If, gods forbid, he should fail to show the temper necessary to assume power, I believe the older girl, Rosalyn, might make a fair she-wolf, if she can but learn the necessary cunning to temper her viciousness.
As for the others—Orden and Silas and Lucia—they do not signify.
They lack the fire for survival, but will make fit offerings to Tyrus when one of their fellows rises to the throne.
—FROM DARIAS INVER TO HADRIAN INVER
Orden woke out of a brief and black sleep only to find noon light pouring through his bedchamber windows and Ariana curled against his side.
Awareness of a sick headache and churning stomach immediately slammed into him, sending him rooting through the chest next to his bedside for a vial of sanibar extract.
Orden used the evil-tasting compound habitually to ward off exhaustion, though most of the court favored it for the function he needed now—countering the aftereffects of a night of drinking.
Swallowing the vial’s contents in a single draft, Orden rolled onto his back again and waited for it to settle him.
“I was worried about you,” Ariana murmured without opening her eyes. “I can’t recall ever truly seeing you in your cups before.”
“The guard would have looked after me,” Orden said, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead as if he could force the pain out that way.
“You put too much faith in them. Perhaps they’d see to your safety, but not your comfort.”
It was true someone had taken him out of his breeches and doublet and put him in a nightshirt.
Not Miciah, but Ariana, Orden was sure, for Miciah would have taken last night’s garments to the castle laundry, rather than draping them carefully over the back of a chair as Ari had done.
Orden could remember almost nothing after the naming rites.
He’d watched Ariana stand there, soaked in blood, and known he should be proud.
Surely now the rest of court would see her as he did—as possessed of strength and fire in no less measure than any Inver, though she showed it differently.
Surely Afon would accord her the measure of respect and fear she deserved from him as chosen companion of Caervallion’s greatest rival, rather than viewing her as a morsel to be consumed in the wake of Orden’s eventual downfall.
But instead of offering reassurance, the spectacle of Ariana in blood got by violence had wakened bleak despair in Orden, as if he’d broken something fine and irreparable.
Normally Honoria’s king was temperate in his determination to outmatch his court at their cups—he drank no more than was strictly necessary.
He’d developed a prodigious head for spirits as a result, but last night he’d throw back toast after toast to Justus and his own dynasty, immoderate in his desire to drown out the image of Ariana in her moment of obedience and triumph.
He remembered Dolenza, vaguely, and a feeling of goodwill toward her.
He remembered agreeing to visit the cloister.
And as the sanibar took effect and Orden rose, stumbling to the washbasin and finding the water stained red with wine or blood, he recalled something else: the offer Dolenza had made, of a united Honoria.
Something Orden greatly desired and had often dreamed of.
To fully possess the cloister and the Solis Plains was an achievement none of his predecessors had managed.
If Orden could undertake that particular coup, he would have no need of sham councils meant to convince others of his reasonableness.
The two sessions held before Justus’s naming gave Orden an excuse to suspend them, and had been gods-awful.
Just sitting in a room with Afon filled him with prickling fury and the itching compulsion to lunge at the other man.
For seven years, Orden had dealt with Afon’s unwanted correspondence, every letter containing threats and filthy insinuations regarding Honoria’s king and queen.
It had more than got under his skin—it had gone into his blood, until he felt he must expel the venom through action or die of it.
So Gileta’s tirades and Corrin’s intermittent pleading and Gwylen’s attempts at rough diplomacy had been to no avail.
Orden would not alter course, not with Afon seated across from him, silent and gloating, refusing to engage and taking the keenest pleasure in seeing his rival beleaguered by failing alliances.
Dolenza’s overture and invitation could not have come at a better time.
Orden had no high opinion of Raea’s Matria, but he’d gained power through his willingness to find allies in unlikely places, and to make the loyalty of others his strength.
This was a return to his usual form—he might lose Song Royale, but Raea’s house would make a worthy replacement.
Besides which, a change of scenery would be welcome, and possibly distract Gileta from scolding him roundly every time their paths crossed.
The headache and sickness began to loosen their hold, and Orden glanced over at Ariana.
She lay on one side, eyes still shut, and the pallor was back in her cheeks.
She’d seemed better and brighter last night, but now looked ashen and frail again.
He would do this thing, Orden thought with iron resolve.
He would forge new ties to Raea’s cloister for the sake of his queen, and bring peace to the warring halves of her soul.
“Justus is with his nurse?” Orden asked, and Ariana nodded. Carefully, he eased himself up onto one elbow and bent to kiss her white forehead. She winced at even that slight movement, as if it sparked pain within her.
“Do you still bleed? I thought you seemed better last night.”
“Fia treated me,” Ari said. “It helped for a little while, but Crispus attended me after the ceremony, and his ministrations are less than gentle.”
It was not a reproach, but a statement of fact—for careful handling, Invers did not go to their physician but to the Priest. Ariana staunchly refused the Priest’s help in matters related to childbed, however, wary of the slightest breath of scandal.
She was fierce in her protection of Orden—of his name and his honor and the undeniable legitimacy of his heirs.
A cloister and a country united were not enough to fully convey his regard for her, but they would have to suffice.
It would be a comfort to her, too, having Raea’s house as support when Orden marched on Caervallion.
“You think highly of the nurse,” Orden said, stroking the midnight waterfall of Ariana’s hair.
Normally straight and glossy, it rippled slightly this morning after a night bound back in a crown of braids.
“You may keep her as long as you like. It pleases me to see you with a friend, and one sincere in her devotion, at that. I know the Inver women do not treat you as they ought, though you refuse to complain.”
Ariana made no direct answer. Her mouth thinned, and if it was with displeasure or pain, Orden could not be sure.
“When will we leave for Raea’s house?” Ari asked, transparent in her desire to avoid speaking of the Invers who were meant to pay court to her.
“We’ll leave as soon as you and I rise from this bed, if you’re able to travel. Glora will have fits, but she’ll obey regardless. Better to give her no time to work herself into a true passion. Can you? Travel, I mean?”
“I am able to do whatever my king requires,” Ariana said in her usual pacific tone.
Orden frowned. “Truly, star? I won’t order this if you can’t tolerate the journey.”
Without hesitation, she fixed her eyes on him, and he thought he might drown in the rich darkness of them. Orden’s peerless queen reached up and cupped his face with one hand.
“I can’t ride. I will need a currus to bear me and the prince, and whatever members of the court join us will think poorly of me because of it. But I will go. You seem set on this visit, and since joining myself to you, I have never allowed myself to be left behind.”
It was true. Any expeditions of state he’d had to undertake, Ariana had accompanied him, and at times when she’d been indisposed, he’d quietly refused to travel. Not once in the seven years since she came to Inverlyn had they been parted.
“We could refuse the invitation,” Orden said begrudgingly, but he doubted that, if refused, it would be followed by another. Besides which, he needed this. Ari needed it. Honoria needed it, most of all.
“No.” Ariana raised herself up enough to kiss him, soft and lingering on the mouth.
Her lips were cool and featherlight, as if he kissed a spirit rather than a woman of flesh and blood.
Worry bit Orden deeply, and he resolved to speak to the nurse about her cures.
If she could restore Ariana to full health, he’d reward the postulant richly.
“If you wish to go, we go,” Ariana said against Orden’s mouth. To lend truth to her words, she slipped over him and out of the bed to stand barefoot in her long white nightdress. “Call my currus,” she ordered imperiously. “The Inver queen is ready.”
A laugh burst out of Orden, dispelling the last evil effects of his night of intemperance.
Ariana’s humor shone out so rarely, and when it did, it was like sitting on a spring hillside, marveling at a sky that glittered with an exuberance of stars.
With one sinuous movement he got to his feet and swept her up into his arms.
“The Inver queen has my heart now and forever,” he said as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. “I am her servant, to do as she wills. It has been so since our first meeting, and will be until my last breath.”