Beautys Justice – By Alexa Santi #7
Firchara hesitated. The truth of his words echoed within her, even as her heart rebelled against them.
“I do not like secrets.”
“Of course not, my little truth-teller. Secrets are contrary to your nature. But you cannot know this one until the time is right.”
He tilted her chin up so he could look directly into her eyes.
“Why do you stay, Firchara?” he murmured.
He drew her even closer, his hard body pressing against her softness, and she barely concealed her gasp. She had dreamed of him holding her like this, but reality was even better than her imaginings. His dark eyes gazed down at her, their golden sheen swirling like eddies in the sea.
She had to clear her throat in order to speak. “I must stay, or you will never help my mother.”
“So you will leave as soon as I grant your wish?”
“Yes.”
He was silent for a long time. “That creates a dilemma for me, little mortal. Your mother deserves her justice, but I wish you to stay.”
“Don’t say that.”
“If you truly have no wish to stay, then move away from me.”
Firchara tried. She moved as much as an inch, but her body rebelled at the idea of moving away from his. Instead, it wanted to move closer, to press against him, to slip her arms around him as naturally as his arms curved around her.
He leaned closer, and she leaned with him until their lips brushed together once. And then again. And again, a rhythm that made her restless and eager to slide her arms around his neck and pull him down to her, his arms going around her to pull her tight against him as they kissed.
“Come to my bed tonight,” he murmured against her ear, the words followed by another string of kisses down her throat that made her arch towards him.
She was tempted, sorely tempted, by his hard body against hers, his arms holding her secure, his clever mouth and tongue against her skin making her wonder how they would feel against her breasts, her thighs, her…
With a strength she did not know she possessed, she braced her hands against his arms. He let go immediately, feeling her resistance, and frowned at her. She pushed herself off his lap and stood, feeling cold and alone without his body next to hers.
“I cannot,” she said. “Not until you hear my mother’s case.”
His brows knit together in a mix of confusion and frustration. “Do you seek to bribe me?”
“No!” She searched her mind for the right words. “If I came to your bed before you heard her… I would not be able to forget why I am here, and what I am waiting for. It would color my every thought, my every movement.”
“I could make you forget. For a time.”
She was tempted again, but shook her head. “No. If we do come together, I want nothing between us. Especially not my mother.”
Unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth quirked up and then down again. “I would also prefer not to have your mother between us when I take you to bed.”
She chuckled, and held out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it, squeezing for a moment before letting go with a sigh and getting to his feet.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow I will hear her plea.”
Firchara’s heart stopped for a moment, then re-started with a kick. She hoped the conflicting emotions his words sent raging through her were not obvious in her expression.
“Thank you,” she said.
When she returned to their room, still dazed, Mother was shaking out the completed kirtle.
The lavender silk was now adorned with intricately embroidered leaves and vines, dotted here and there with tiny flowers in shades of blue and purple and pink.
It was so beautiful that new tears prickled behind Firchara’s eyes.
“I was able to make a few matching shifts for you as well,” Mother said. “The lace edge showing at the bodice will be lovely.”
“He says he will hear your plea tomorrow, Mother.”
Firchara would have missed Mother’s flinch had she not been watching for it. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“What are you planning to tell him?”
“The truth, of course. Even if I wished to lie, you know I cannot.”
“It is what you came for,” Mother said. “I hope you are able to get what you need from his judgment.”
Firchara nodded, unable to articulate her swirl of wishes and hopes and desires, all of which could be shattered into pieces once Ulfjadir heard the truth.
She did not go down to supper that night. It was time to gather her arguments to win the justice Mother deserved.
She refused to think beyond that.
Firchara wore her new kirtle the next day, donning it like armor and lacing it tight to stiffen her spine. Mother tied the matching headwrap around her hair in an intricate knot and pulled a few curls out to frame her face.
“Whatever happens,” Mother said, “I do not regret that we tried.”
Firchara nodded, her throat clogged with loss. The strategy that had made so much sense when they arrived weeks ago now seemed hollow in the face of what she had begun to hope for.
But it must be done. The plea must be made. To do otherwise would spawn lies of omission that would smother any other possibilities before they could grow.
They must begin with the full truth between them, or not begin at all.
Dressed in her own finery and with her head held high, Mother linked arms with her.
With a nod, they promenaded down the stairs.
Petitioners and servitors lined the corridors, watching them pass, and Firchara gave an extra swish of her skirts as they rounded the corner to the doors of the Great Hall.
“Good luck, Mistress Firchara,” one of the armsmen dared to say, and the doors swung open.
People lined the room, but an aisle had been left down the center for Firchara and Mother. With a deep breath, she stepped forward, guiding Mother to where Ulfjadir waited for them on his throne.
Her chair was gone from beside him. She noticed that first, afraid to look into his face and see his expression. She glanced around the room, unnerved by the silent audience. At the back, kitchen staff crowded at the doors, and she briefly wondered who was minding the spits.
At last, he said, “Mistress Malaika, lately of Mochain. Of what are you accused?”
“Treason, my lord of justice,” Mother said, her voice calm and pitched to be heard by the whole room. The crowd began to buzz as the god raised his brows.
“You betrayed your lord, and were allowed to merely go into exile?”
“Yes. Because of my many years of service to Mochain, I was only deprived of my place and sent into exile with what I could carry instead of being executed.”
Firchara knew Ulfjadir had turned his gaze on her, but she could not meet it. “Is this true?” he asked.
“Lord Ohrean called it treason,” Mother said. “I disagreed.”
“I asked your daughter for the truth. Not you, Mistress Malaika.”
Mother squeezed her arm and, after another hesitation, Firchara looked up at Ulfjadir, looking as cold and remote as the first day she had seen him.
And as lonely.
“My mother told the Lady Sera that her foster father had lied to her,” Firchara said slowly.
“It caused Lady Sera to reject the marriage that had been arranged for her and run away. Lord Ohrean felt the only way my mother could have known of his lie was by eavesdropping, or by reading his correspondence, which would be treason.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “But that is not how she found out.”
“No,” Firchara said. “I told her he had lied, and we decided to tell Lady Sera.”
“Lord Ohrean did not know you have the gift of truth.”
“No one knew but my family.” Firchara shrugged with a carelessness she did not feel.
“Truth-tellers are not loved. If we are not killed outright, we are kept as birds in cages by the powerful. If Lord Ohrean had found out about my gift, I would have been detained as his personal truth-teller, with Mother hostage to his goodwill. So, we accepted our exile.”
“And sought justice from me.”
“Yes. Because being accused of treason and exiled for revealing Lord Ohrean’s own folly was unjust .”
The word rang through the room, and Firchara realized her voice had soared past her control. She gulped it back and cast her eyes down, clutching at Mother’s hand. Mother squeezed back, her grip reassuringly strong.
A long pause, and the god said, “I must think.”
He stood, waved away the armsmen, and walked to the antechamber, closing the door firmly behind himself.
Alone.
Firchara swayed a little, and a chair was pushed behind her knees, with Mother assisted into another one. A buzz spread through the crowd once more as they waited.
And waited.
Armsmen came and went, but the door to the antechamber remained closed.
The longer they waited, the more Firchara despaired.
The tight ball of misery in her abdomen expanded until she felt it might choke her.
She had been happy here, her gift useful at last, not something to be hidden and denied to protect herself and her loved ones.
She had been happy with him , being at his side, watching and learning and growing together.
And she knew this was only the barest taste of it, only the thin edge of what they could create together, given enough time.
Now time had run out, that fragile trust shattered by her own decision to conceal the truth, and the bitterness of her realization was almost more than she could bear.
“My lady? Mistress Firchara?”
With a start, Firchara realized one of the senior armsmen was standing before her, his face impassive.
“My master asks that you join him in private.”
The ripple of a murmur that spread like wildfire, first through the watching servitors and then to the petitioners, told her how unusual this request was, and she froze.
If the god’s action was unprecedented, how was she to know what his mood was?
Would he strike her down, or embrace her?
Would she face exile from this new place she had learned to see as her home, and need to seek yet another?
Mother nudged her with her elbow. “Go along, child. Don’t keep the god waiting.”