Chapter III #2
There came an awkward shuffling, and a breath of unspeakably sweet air as the door opened long enough for five courtiers and Glora to file out. Then they were gone and the Priest bent low, his words for Ariana’s hearing only.
“They’ll have to be allowed back in once the child arrives—I can’t forbid anyone an opportunity to see the new Inver heir. But this is better, for now.”
“Thank you, Adda,” Ariana managed.
“Blood and blades, little queen,” the Priest said. “You should have sent for me two days ago. Why let things go so far?”
A last failing spark flared to life in Ariana.
“Because they think I’m weak,” she said. “Every last one of them. All of Orden’s petty court. I wanted… I wanted to do this on my own, to prove them wrong.”
The Priest shook his head. “Ariana Inver, you have nothing to prove.”
Ariana made no reply. She shut her eyes and set her lips and breathed, and breathed, as another of the pains twisted through her insides.
But when it had faded and she looked again, the Priest was still there, steadfast at her bedside, her hand caught in his own.
Firelight gilded his sallow skin and close-cropped dark hair.
Beyond them, Crispus the physician watched closely, a calculating expression on his face.
Stricken, Ariana pulled her hand away. The Priest was her ally at court, and the closest thing she’d ever had to a brother, or a friend of the heart—he had been since her arrival.
There was a camaraderie and understanding between them that Ariana could never feel with Orden.
With her husband, there was too much at stake for any sort of ease.
But Ariana was nothing if not scrupulously faithful.
For seven years she’d never allowed herself to be caught in a position that might cause even the mildest gossip.
She’d been flawless in her devotion. Peerless in her duty.
Perfect in her obedience on all fronts except one, and even there, she planned her every misstep and hid it with great care.
“I was wrong to call for you,” Ariana said, summoning a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. “This was a mistake, Priest. I don’t… I don’t want you here.”
He frowned, and Ariana hated herself because as perfect as she had striven to be since leaving her cloister, she was nothing without her goddess. Worse than nothing—she was weak. And inside, she wanted him to stay, baseless Inver suspicions be damned.
“Leave,” Ariana ordered, and the Priest got to his feet with a frustrated sigh.
“Your pride will be the death of you,” he said quietly, and dropped a small packet onto her lap. “That’s for you. Take it when you’re ready.”
Only once he’d gone and the loneliness and despair in Ariana rose up like a wave did she reach for the packet with trembling hands.
The twine binding the cloth bundle together gave easily, revealing a vial of crushed and dried ender’s herbs, which could be used to slip an unwanted babe in the early months of pregnancy, or to hasten a labor.
The court physician did not approve of its use, but the Priest had no such compunctions.
Secreted away along with the herbs was a pendant of nightglass, strung on a cord of leather.
The sight of it caught Ariana like a blow, reminding her of home, and of her many allegiances, between which she was pulled as thin as gossamer.
With a deft motion of her hand, she slipped the ornament beneath her rumpled bedsheets.
Stifling a pained sound, Ariana emptied the vial of ender’s herbs into a fresh glass of water and drained its contents, grimacing at the taste. Then she settled herself on the sweat-dampened pillows behind her and waited for the pangs that plagued her to worsen.
But even as she did, raised voices from outside the shut door cut through the fog surrounding Ariana. It was the Priest, sounding bluff and hearty and unnatural, for he spoke far louder than was his usual habit.
“No, I wouldn’t go in if I were you, Orden,” he said with forced cheer. “Hopefully an end will come to it soon, and then you can—”
But he was cut off as the door swung open. For the briefest moment, Ariana caught sight of the Priest standing helplessly in the corridor, and then Orden himself strode over the threshold.
He was an imposing man, Ariana’s Inver husband, tall and broad-shouldered and ten years her senior.
Even as king, he’d retained a good-natured manner about him that set people at ease.
Yet he could be as ruthless as any other member of his conquest-driven clan, a fact which had been brought home to Ariana with terrible immediacy only weeks ago.
She was still bewildered and heartsick over what her king had done, ordering a renewal of the war with Caervallion.
They’d had their clashes over the years since that ill-fated battle summer in Corrin, but nothing serious.
Nothing to truly worry her. Not even the slightest hint that Orden was considering such an action had reached Ariana, either by his own admission or through the gossips of the court.
Of course, Orden had never sworn to her outright that he’d hold to peace here on the Hand, restricting his warmongering to ventures overseas.
No, she’d never dared push hard enough for such an oath, but he’d allowed her to move him toward peace so many times over the years that she’d grown complacent, and almost sure of him.
A few feet from Ariana’s bedside, Orden stopped and waited expectantly.
Uncertainty gripped the queen as it never had before.
As she’d always done, as she always would do in Orden’s presence, Ariana struggled up.
With great care, she got off the bed and onto her knees and ignored the slip of water and blood down the inside of her legs as she knelt before her king.
She did not heed the pain knotting itself inside her, because it was no match for the flare of triumph as Orden hurried to her side.
Whatever had gone wrong, whatever she’d failed to see that led to his new determination to wreak havoc on the Hand, she still moved kings, though it cost her dearly to do so.
“Gods, Ari,” Orden said roughly, and there was reverence in his voice. “I didn’t know if you’d do it. There’s never been anything more beautiful to me than you on your knees—not since the day we met.”
Ariana shut her eyes and said nothing as he helped her onto the bed once more.
The searing pain in her had doubled and trebled and she was forced to breathe through it, hearing nothing of what he said for several minutes.
When at last she could dredge up the remnants of her focus and fix her mind on Orden, he was seated at her bedside and staring at her in confusion, a trace of sternness in the set of his mouth.
“Did you not hear a word of that? I came here for your help, Ari. This was your choice, after all. You begged for it, and against my better judgment I gave in. It can do no good to have Afon here, under our roof. Caervallion’s king is… he’s not someone I would choose to have in your presence.”
“I didn’t hear,” Ariana confessed, her voice cracking on the words. “Forgive me, what was the trouble?”
Orden ran a hand across his handsome, commanding face. “This wretched council you planned—Corrin’s Arbiter and Arbitress have reached the city, and Song Royale’s retinue isn’t far behind with Gileta—”
“Yes, I know.” Ariana cut him off, and her disorientation and discomfort were so great that she hardly noticed she’d done it, or saw the shadow cross his face.
“I made all the arrangements for their accommodations. I did it weeks ago, knowing I might be in some discomfort during their stay, but I never expected—”
She bit back a cry and rolled onto her side. All of her shook with each breath she drew, and to breathe was her only anchor, the only thing that might keep her from being swept away on this riptide of pain. As she breathed, a sound dragged itself out of her, low and desperate and anguished.