Chapter Four
The ride was long and cold, and mostly silent. They were on horseback, naturally, because while Girion could cross the tundra quite quickly in his shifted form, he needed the human to keep up.
While the air around them was silent except for the howling winds, his thoughts were loud and commanded all of his limited space for conversation with others. He was in a fierce argument with himself.
You know so little about her! What have you done, pledging your life to her?
I know just as little about Lady Renata, and what I know of Jocasta, I admire, which I cannot say for Lady Renata. Quite the opposite.
You spent thousands of sovereigns today, and you’ve promised thousands more.
You’ve promised to buy her parents a residence in Tundra Springs and to support the salaries of ten assistants, should they hire that many.
Even though Jocasta’s father said they would be able to pay for the help in a year or two, now that they own their own boat, shop, and land.
.. What an expense! You’ve bought a bride.
I corrected an injustice that I must investigate. I’ve pledged to help the needy, and the queen’s parents—well, the people who are the parents of the woman who will be queen. If she doesn’t marry me, I can ask for the money back.
That’s horrible. You wouldn’t do that. So it stands that you’ve either spent thousands on the woman you will not wed, or you’ve bought a bride.
And just how many men do you think have spent thousands on courtships?
The jewels, the flowers brought in from the Spring Kingdoms, the exotic fruits sent for from the Summer Kingdoms, the travel, the gowns, the love tokens?
And if I were marrying some woman of noble birth, her father would certainly expect me to make a handsome settlement upon her.
One way or another, money would be spent.
All things considered, I like this way far better.
The guilt was temporarily silenced.
“Are you warm enough, sire?” Jocasta’s voice reached his ears for the first time in hours.
“I am, are you?”
“I am fine.”
No, he would bet she wasn’t.
He was made warmer by her presence in his lap when they rode together. But he could make her warmer by shedding his cloak and wrapping it around her—which he did.
“I’m fine, I have no need!” she protested.
“It’s a matter of practicality. That’s a good warm cloak, leather and fur, three layers thick. I won’t be needing it.” Girion said as he halted the horse and slid from it.
“If you would avert your eyes, I will change. I will run alongside—in my other form.”
Jocasta nodded and wheeled the horse around.
He appreciated that she didn’t question, protest, or act afraid at the thought of a giant polar bear. He began to unbutton his shirt.
“Won’t you get cold? Colder?”
“No, this is very refreshing.”
“Our child, if we have one—when we must have an heir—he’ll be a shifter?”
“Yes. Only one parent needs to be a shifter for the child to be able to shift, too.”
“You won’t startle the horse?”
“Not this horse. I’ve raised this horse since he was a colt.
Now, all you have to do is follow me,” Girion slid his now discarded clothes into the saddle bag nearest him, “and bring the horse to a stop when we near the city gates of Tundra Springs. We will go in together, I leading the horse in my human form, but there will not be some great fanfare. I prefer this to be done quietly, and I will tell you all about the reasons for such quiet tomorrow. Tonight, we must arrive and settle you in, as discreetly as possible.” He hesitated, shivering as the snow settled on his skin.
“It is not because I’m not pleased that you are here. ”
“Thank you, sire. I didn’t think that.”
“Good.” He stepped back, well away from the horse.
“Won’t there be servants who talk?”
“Not in my household. Our household. They are loyal—and to be honest, there are not as many servants as there are guards. Without a queen, there is less feasting, less merriment. But that will change with you.”
WHATEVER SHE WAS GOING to say in response to his declaration that her presence would lead to more feasting and merriment was swallowed up as she heard the ripping, popping sounds of bones and skin rearranging, a man becoming a beast. An enormous white bear, several feet taller than the massive horse she was riding, reared up in a stretch, letting out a single bellowing roar—and then dropped to all fours, stretched and rolled in the snow like a cub, and took off running.
“Whoa!” Jo yelped as the horse took off, too. He seemed to recognize his master in all forms and was thrilled that he had a chance to race with him.
She couldn’t help but smile as the horse capered and the giant bear ran, sometimes looking back to see his equine companion and giving a short grunt or low bellow, then waiting until they’d caught up to each other to race again.
This is a dream. An amazing dream, Jo thought as the barren landscape turned into glowing silhouettes of city spires and steeples, the palace looming up high, on a rise of craggy, icy peaks.
The city walls were lit with torches at intervals, and she could begin to make out the shapes of guards on them—Bearfolk and human.
The moon was high and lavender, and the snow was gentle here, not the howling, clawing beast that had been surrounding her home lately.
“It’s so beautiful!” she shouted into the wind, and Girion skidded, sending up a spray of snow.
He looked at her, blue eyes in white fur, cavernous mouth panting—and then forming into a smile.
“I have never been farther than Frost Hills in my entire life, unless you count sailing out to sea. This ... It’s beautiful. And the snow is softer here. The air is warmer the closer we get to the city.”
The big head nodded, and the bear rose, towering over her and the horse.
Girion walked on his hind legs, his long, dagger-like claws careful as they came to rest on the side of the horse’s neck. He said nothing, but he looked at her, and that smile was there.
Jo swallowed a gasp when he placed his paw out. It covered her entire thigh, which was not a small thing. He turned it over, rough, scarred black pads facing up.
It was like an instinct, something she understood without words. She put her hand against the mighty paw and squeezed. “Beautiful,” she repeated.
BY ALL THE SNOWS, SHE is beautiful. In moonlight, in snow, in starlight, with her wondering eyes, and the fearless way she places her hand in mine...
His heart was beating in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion of running for miles.
Girion dropped back to all fours and continued at a slower pace, keeping the horse at a trot, not a gallop, so Jocasta could take in the sights for longer. So he could look back at her for longer, and see her face kissed by snowflakes and bathed in that lilac light.
So he could pretend that she was becoming his queen out of love, not because they offered each other necessary things, not because of some pact, an informal alliance.
I don’t want to be in love, do I?
It would be easier to trust her if I thought she loved me.
Well... I hold power over her parents’ livelihoods in some small way, and that matters to her.
I wonder if she realizes what power she holds over me, what power she will wield, especially once there is an heir to think of?
Girion’s heart was suddenly heavy and cold, and he didn’t want to look back and see her laughing, awed face anymore.
“I SAW MEN THAT WERE Bearfolk,” Jocasta hissed, voice quivering with excitement as they worked their way to the side gate.
“Not all shifters can take such a form.”
“Can you?”
“Indeed.”
“Does it have to do with the strength of your powers?”
“No, more a matter of talent, control, and parentage. My magic is Air magic. Your talents are in Air and Water?”
“Some Earth, as well. I hear some can learn Fire, if they try.” She hesitated. “I could try. If that would make me more useful. I know it’ll be cobbled together, not natural, like those in the other parts of Wylding.”
“That would be useful, indeed.” Girion halted the horse at the smallest side gate, one that she identified as leading to the kitchen and courtyards by the faint smell of smoke and roasting meat. Or—she sniffed again as the wind shifted, it could have been the stables.
“Cole!” Girion thumped twice on the gate, hard enough that the wooden gate with its stone and iron reinforcements rattled.
“Raise the bar!” a voice called from above, and Jocasta craned her neck to see a thin section of wall, different from the thick, teeming sections that first greeted her.
Creaking, shifting, and slamming accompanied the heavy sound of metal and wood, and the door swung open.
The man who came to her shop yesterday was there, dressed in uniform, furs, and a hooded cloak that was shoved back to reveal his face. “Good. You came,” he addressed her, and then bowed low.
Jocasta sat tight in the saddle, her legs aching from being cold and forced to straddle a mount that was only slightly smaller than a rowboat for hours.
She looked at Girion, then the man bowing.
She was no queen yet! People didn’t bow to a poor fisherman’s daughter in tatty robes.
“Hello, again,” she said, and realized she would probably have to read some books or scrolls on how to behave like a lady.
She’d probably have to read even more if she were supposed to be a queen.
“Hello, again,” Cole said, raising his head with a smile. “Come in, through the kitchens.”
“It is necessary,” Girion said quickly, apprehension on his face.
Jocasta looked through the smoky air, where scents of cooking were mixing with gusts of icy wind and snow blown from the ground and off the roof. “I don’t mind.”
“Where do I put her, sire?” Cole muttered as they walked together.
Girion came to her side and stuck out his hand.
He wants to help me down. Well, my legs are in quite a state; it might be necessary. “Thank you.”
“Put her in the Queen’s Suite.”
“Uh. Lady Renata might like that suite when she returns. That was the Archduke’s suggestion.”
Girion gave his underling a look that would melt iron. “I do not believe that I will take that particular suggestion into account.”
“Yes, sire.”
“If Lady Jocasta has no objections, that is?” Girion turned his gaze back to her while she was (most indelicately) struggling to get her leg over the horse’s broad back.
“Lady? A lady would—oof—have more grace getting off such a beast,” she grunted.
She found herself lifted by the waist, set on the ground, and then she staggered, clutching the nearest sturdy thing for support.
Girion. Girion the Great. He was sturdy indeed, a wall of a man.
“Lady Jocasta needs hot food, mulled wine, and warm clothing. She’s not possessed of a shifter’s tolerance for the cold. Cole—send for the— oh, what is he called?”
“Who, sire?”
Girion pulled her off her feet, even as she tried to stomp circulation back into her numb toes and legs, and then swung her legs up over the crook of his arm. “He’s not the tailor! He has all of those keys, and he always wants me to have satin this and silk that, and I always tell him no?”
“The Master of the Wardrobe, sire.”
“Send for him.”