Chapter Twenty-One - The Solstice Ball #3
“That’s enough,” said Aurelian as Dorian took a step towards Bastian, his fists clenched on either side of him.
Bastian quickly rose from his lounging positing to meet his brother, his hands held mockingly in surrender, “Oh come on Aurelian, don’t you want to know too? Have you got it up yet Dory, or is that dead too?”
Dorian went to lunge forward but Aurelian grasped his shoulders, holding him back.
Bastian took a few steps back, laughing as he took a long drink from his goblet.
Dorian tried to shrug off his brothers hands, but Aurelian held him tightly and whispered, “he’s just looking for a rise, don’t give him it. ”
Dorian did not relax but he stopped struggling against Aurelian, glaring at Bastian.
The curly haired man turned his attention to Rosamund instead, moving closer to her.
Isolde’s grip on her arm became tighter as if she might pull Rosamund away, but she kept her feet firmly planted, lifting her chin up as Bastian approached.
She could smell wine-soaked breath on her face.
“Perhaps you could enlighten us, Lady Valehart. Has my brother managed to fill you with any seed yet?” his eyes drifted downwards towards her chest, “Has he buried himself in that thick Valehart soil?”
There was another burst of cackling from Lavinia and a few nearby lords. Osric looked like he wished he was anywhere else, and Aurelian glared, a look of distaste on his face as Dorian renewed his struggle against his brothers grip, his murderous gaze fixed on Bastian’s back.
“If he hasn’t, then I would be happy to perform his duty myself,” slurred Bastian, “you will be much more satisfied.”
Despite whatever calming effect the music was having on her, she could feel something bubbling within her.
He was humiliating them, again. Just as he had the night of their betrothal.
She had spent months hating Dorian for the death of her cousin, but it had been this man that had orchestrated it.
This man that had kicked the barrel out from under Todric’s feet.
This vile man that abused his wife, abused the women of his district, abused anyone to make himself feel big.
She could still feel Isolde gently pulling on her arm to draw her away, but Rosamund took a step closer to the prince who grinned down at her.
In a sickly sweet tone, she raised her voice and said, “I doubt that very much,” she looked him up and down with a withering gaze, her disgusted look lingering around his crotch before reaching his eyes again, “in fact, I doubt you could perform anything in your current state.”
The grin was instantly wiped from his face and there was a flare of rage in his eyes.
Aurelian let out a whoop of laughter, that was accompanied by yet another snort from Cedric as he took a drink, and Osric holding his stomach as he giggled.
Even Lavinia had to bite back a laugh, a shocked expression on her face as Isolde chuckled beside her.
Even Dorian had stopped struggling against his brother to pause and look at Rosamund with surprise.
She took a moment to smile at him, before turning her attention back to the dumbfounded Bastian with a raised eyebrow.
“She’s got you there,” said Aurelian through tears of laughter, letting go of Dorian to sling his arm around Bastian instead, in a much rougher manner.
“Didn’t I tell you she was a wit,” said Isolde as she rested her head against Rosamund’s shoulder.
Bastian glowered at each of them, before shrugging his brother off and staggering towards the dance floor, Lavinia close on his heels. Those gathered nearest the balcony, that no doubt had heard, hid their faces behind fans and whispered to each other excitedly.
See how it feels, arsehole.
Dorian was watching her. With gratitude or admiration, she was not sure, but either way she matched his look.
They were a team. It was true that they needed to keep up appearances, that she could not look so happy with her new situation, but that did not mean she had to stand back and let Bastian humiliate them.
She had his back. He had hers. He had moved to her defence and she had done the same.
This room was filled with those she could not trust, but he was not one of them.
And for the first time, she felt he saw that too.
“Come, tell us how you have been Dorian,” said Aurelian, once again wrapping his arm around his brother’s shoulder.
She noticed Dorian did not wince as much as he did last time.
Perhaps the music was affecting him too.
Isolde led her over to where Elswyth and Marianne sat as the brothers turned their attention to Dorian.
Elswyth looked up at her with a pleased expression and reached out a hand to her, “you did very well Rosamund.”
“Thank you, Princess Elswyth,” said Rosamund as Marianne moved along to make space for her on the chaise.
“Very well? She was bloody brilliant!” said Isolde as she stood in front of them, hands on her hips, “about time someone spoke to Bastian like that,” she glanced at Elswyth, “no offence.”
Elswyth smiled sadly at her and said, “none taken.”
“I still can’t believe you said that” said Marianne in hushed tones as she grasped Rosamund’s hands.
“Neither can I,” said Rosamund excitedly.
“Well it was very impressive,” said Isolde, “and your curtsy,” she blew a kiss, “perfection.”
“Thank you,” said Rosamund, relieved, though something still niggled at her, “what did he mean about a curse?”
Elswyth and Isolde shared a look and Marianne’s grip on her hand became tighter.
“An old superstition,” said Isolde quickly, almost a little too flippantly, “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Yet, it did mean something, otherwise why would Bastian have said it?
She looked between the two older woman. Both shared a similar look, one of pain, of loss.
It hurt to see them that way, these women who had been so kind to her.
She regretted her curiosity and was determined to change the subject before Elswyth spoke.
“None of the King’s sons have produced an heir,” said Elswyth quietly, “Though each of them have been married, some longer than others, there have been no children.”
Celeste and Gawain had been married many, many years now.
She knew that from her lessons with Elswyth, both had already partaken of Liathern’s Elixir, their lives extended from the point of their marriage.
And yet, she had seen no children on the family tree that Elswyth had shown her.
No laughter when she had visited, no scolding, no small hands reaching for biscuits from the tea tray.
She thought of their grand palaces, no doubt with full wings dedicated to the arrival of children. Rooms that remained empty.
Isolde crossed her arms in front of her, one hand rubbing soothing circles into her skin, whilst Elswyth clasped her hands together. Marianne shifted uncomfortably beside her but did not share the same bereft look as the other two. If anything, she looked relieved.
“I’m so sorry,” said Rosamund, looking between each of them.
“It’s not your fault love,” said Isolde kindly, “don’t believe a word they say. I don’t.”
“What do they say?”
“It’s nonsense,” said Isolde firmly, “like I said, superstitious mumbo jumbo.”
Rosamund looked at Elswyth who reluctantly explained, “there are some, no one here,” Isolde nodded emphatically, “that believe that before his,” she hesitated, “passing, your father cursed the King and his children. They say that he used his Life magic to end the line of House Mordane. That he may take many wives, have many children, but that it would end with them.”
“What?” said Rosamund in disbelief, “but he couldn’t, that’s not…that’s not possible.”
Isn’t it? Said a voice in her head, you didn’t know him. He’s kept so many secrets from you. What else has he kept from you? What else has he done?
“Exactly,” said Isolde as she gestured to Rosamund, “it’s ridiculous, it’s just…unfortunate.”
The red head reached up to wipe away a tear from her eye, forcing a cheery smile to her face as Rosamund looked up at her, “it doesn’t make any sense anyway. Why allow the king to continue having children if my father wanted to end the line.”
“Because he wanted to end his legacy as well,” said Elswyth softly, “the more sons there are, the more they would tear each other apart to inherit their father’s throne.”
Was it true? Was this what her father wanted?
His ability with Life magic was surpassed by none, it would be entirely possible that he could have developed a spell to curse an entire line.
To see it turn on itself. A curse. Did the King think that by marrying his son to Roderic Valehart’s daughter the curse might be ended?
That the magic in her veins would free them of barrenness.
It was cruel.
For all that House Mordane was vicious, for all that the King killed her father, her brother, her family, to deny these women the choice of a child was cruel.
These women who had done nothing. These women who had supported and guided her.
Denied a choice. She could tell that it was something Isolde and Elswyth longed for.
It was in the way Elswyth wrapped her arms around herself.
As much as Isolde insisted it was nonsense, Rosamund could see the hope in her eyes as she looked at her.
There was still a hope, deep in Isolde’s heart, that Rosamund would break whatever curse hung over them.
Can I?
How could she even do it? What would it take? She knew nothing of curses. Her father had never taught her them as he had explained they were forbidden magics. To learn their theory was to know how to enact them. How would she even begin to break such a thing? Would her marriage do it?
And how could she tell them? How could she tell them that it was not something she herself wanted. Had ever wanted. And ever would want.