Chapter 17
Wars and Weddings
Aleksi stood on the steps to the palace along
with Anastasia, King Asad, and Queen Oona, as well as several other
members of the royal family, including Sahar, dressed in the same
gown of green worm weave that she had worn the night of Autumn’s
Eve. Except today she wore a woolen shawl of burnt umber to ward
off the late autumn chill. The inner gate to the palace opened, and
Aleksi tore his gaze from her to the company riding in. He saw his
father’s graying head and let out a relieved sigh at sight of his
erect, unbent spine after a fortnight’s trek, which had left Aleksi
bone-weary and saddle-sore.
He hadn’t known what to expect since
Anastasia’s cryptic comments about their father’s health. He’d been
worried about his father undertaking a long journey. Now that his
father was here, Aleksi was truly glad to see him.
The company stopped at the steps as stable
hands came running to take their mounts and house servants to
unload their pack horses. Aleksi never took his eyes off of his
father, whose gaze met and held his a long, searching moment before
giving him a quick nod and then turning to King Asad, who was
walking down the steps to him.
“Welcome, Maksimillian, my friend,” King Asad
greeted with a hearty handshake. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, Asad.” Maksimillian broke the
handshake, and though he still spoke to Asad, he was looking at
Aleksi. “Praise be to you and the gods for bringing my son and your
daughter home safe.”
“It was more their own doing than mine or the
gods,” Asad said. “By the time we found them, they were well on
their way back.”
Aleksi swallowed past the hard lump in his
throat as his father walked straight up to him, ignoring
Anastasia’s simpering. Aleksi offered his hand. “Father.”
Maksimillian took his son’s hand and then
pulled him into his embrace. “My son. I am more glad than I can say
to see you alive and well.”
Aleksi breathed in the familiar scent of
sandalwood and leather, and buried his nose deeper into his
father’s neck, the breath he had been holding releasing with a sigh
when he didn’t smell the faintest trace of death or decay.
“I can say the same,” he replied, as they
both stepped back and eyed the other closely. “You look good,
Father, especially after such a long journey.”
“I feel good,” he said, and then fixed his
gaze on Anastasia. “Daughter.” He gave a formal dip of his
head.
“Oh, Father.” She threw her arms around his
neck and hugged him, a hug he didn’t return. “I’m so glad you’re
here. I was so worried about you, traveling such a distance in your
condition.”
“What condition is that?” he asked,
disengaging himself from her stranglehold.
“You were so ill when I left, I feared I
would not make it home in time to see you again.”
“Yet you still left.”
“So did your bastard,” she sputtered.
“Which is another part of an interesting
tale,” their father said, “but one for another, more private
telling.” He turned and walked over to the queen and dipped his
head. “Queen Oona, you grow more beautiful and gracious with every
passing year.”
“And you more full of charm and flattery.”
She smiled. “I see where your son gets it from.”
“Along with his good looks,” Maksimillian
said with a grin. “This must be your daughter, Sahar, who, the last
time I saw her, was still in side braids.” He took Sahar’s hand and
placed his lips on the back of her fingers. “You have grown to be
as beautiful as your mother. And as hard to kill, from what I’ve
been told.”
Sahar’s big eyes widened, and then she
grinned, fierce and feral. “Thank you, King Maksimillian.”
“Thank you for helping bring my son home to
me.”
“Let’s get you inside, out of this chill,”
King Asad said, leading them all into the palace. “Our cook is
preparing a feast with enough food to feed a hundred and twenty
hungry travelers. My manservant will see you to your chambers where
a hot bath awaits. Then we’ll sup.”
Sahar sat between her brother and Halah at
the family’s long table, to the left of her mother and father, with
King Maksimillian sitting to King Asad’s right. To Maksimillian’s
right sat Aleksi. It was the first evening meal that he’d eaten in
the hall since his and Sahar’s fight at the river three days ago.
He’d been taking his meals in the kitchens after the family ate,
and enjoying the attentions of Ursula, no doubt. The kitchen maid
had been looking overly pleased with herself of late.
Anastasia sat to Aleksi’s right, which
would’ve been decided by Maksimillian, and was a public display of
the king ranking his bastard son over his daughter, who was both
older and born in wedlock. Sahar couldn’t help but smile every time
she glanced down the table at them, and caught Aleksi’s bemused
gaze more than once, as well as Anastasia’s spiteful glare.
It was hard to feel any pity for the harpy,
especially knowing how miserable she’d made Aleksi’s life. He was a
victim of his birth, as was anyone, but how they chose to deal with
their life’s circumstances were as different as night and day.
Anastasia, born to privilege and wealth, had chosen to use her
elevated rank in selfish, hateful ways. Aleksi, raised in his youth
as a prince and then brought low, had chosen to work hard and prove
himself a self-made man, helping his friends Pyotr and Serge along
the way, as well as any stray, starving kitten he found.
Sahar had chosen to fight and rail against
the preconceived notions of a woman in her privileged position. She
had proved she could ride as well as any man and better than most,
and that she could survive bad men trying to defile and debase her.
But she hadn’t helped anyone else. Certainly not any of the
hundreds of thousands of poor women in the world who survived
hardships daily, and had little choice or say in the matter.
She felt ashamed.
Ashamed that she had acted exactly like the
proud, spoilt princess Aleksi had accused her of being. If her
biggest problem was proving people’s ideas about her wrong, at
least she had that ability. She could play to or against their
prejudices without having to worry about having a place to live or
feeding her children, and without being at a man’s capricious
mercy. She could choose a husband because she wanted to, not
because she needed to, though she also knew that not all daughters
of royal households had that choice.
She could kill a man who attacked her and not
be hung for it.
“Sahar,” Halah asked, “are you all
right?”
Sweet, good-hearted Halah, who was getting
married on the morrow and still aware enough of others to ask after
Sahar because she sat frowning at her wine.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “You, my dearest of
cousins, are getting married tomorrow.” She smiled into Halah’s
beaming face. “This time tomorrow eve will be your wedding
feast.”
“Then the wedding night,” Halah said, biting
her lower lip.
“It’s a night to look forward to.” Sahar had
told Halah of the passion she and Aleksi had shared in the wilds,
though not in detail. She knew with a woman’s newly woken instinct
that Munir and Halah would share a happy marriage bed. “Munir loves
you. He will be a gentle lover, until you do not want him to be so
gentle anymore,” she said with a purposely wicked grin.
Halah blushed beet red and Sahar laughed
lightly and patted Halah’s hand.
“You will be fine, Lala. I’m sure of it.”
“Then I’ll smile as satisfied as you when you
talk about laying with Aleksi.”
It was Sahar’s turn to blush furiously, and
Halah laughed, the two of them catching the rest of the table’s
attention. They both raised their goblets and sipped their wine
until their cheeks cooled and curious gazes found other points of
interest.
“Aleksandr looks much like a younger version
of his father,” Halah said. “Though Aleksandr is a hand taller and
broader through the chest.”
Sahar’s cheeks flushed again, and her nipples
hardened at the memory of Aleksi’s bare, broad chest skin to skin
against hers. “So he is,” she agreed, swiping at the bead of sweat
on her cheeks, “and so he does. The king couldn’t deny his
parentage even if he wished to. By their warm greeting this
afternoon, he does not.”
“Anastasia looks as ill-disposed by it as the
king and Aleksandr are pleased.”
Sahar chuffed. “She’s a cold-stone
bitch.”
“Sahar.”
“Well,” she said, ignoring her brother’s
sideways glance. “She is. She, her sister, and their mother, Queen
Theodesia, did nothing but make Aleksi’s life miserable. It’s
because of them that his father took him from the palace and made
him a stable boy once Maksimillian’s second wife presented him with
a legitimate male heir.”
“And now?”
“Something’s changed, though I don’t know
what. We live in a palace, and we all know how well secrets are
kept in a palace.”
“Which means,” Halah said, “that we will find
out sooner than later.”
The next night, the great hall glowed with
torchlight as Sahar followed behind Halah, who shone as bright and
iridescent as the dragonfly brooch clasping her shawl of sheer worm
weave over her gown of pearl white, her lustrous brown hair flowing
freely to below her waist. At the end of the tunnel of family and
friends stood Munir, his eyes never leaving his beautiful
bride-to-be as she walked to him, his grin growing with each step
that brought Halah closer.
Standing beside Munir were Asim and
Aleksandr, who wore a robe of rich ocher with hems of earth brown
embroidered with threads of gold, russet, and green worm weave. He
wore sandals rather than his usual boots, and his face was clean
shaven, the lights and shadows playing off the square cut of his
jawline.
Pick your feet up, Sahar. Do not trip over
your tongue drooling over the man, no matter how handsome he looks
standing there in the torchlight. He’s not yours, not since you
drove him into Ursula’s waiting arms.
She stepped to the side as Halah took her
place beside Munir as the priest began his marriage litany. Sahar
tried to listen, but her attention was drawn to Aleksi, whose eyes
were fixed on hers. She shifted from foot to foot under his