“What does love have to do with marriage? Love comes afterward, from good will and healthy children, if it comes at all. And if not, you simply occupy different quarters and see each other only at festivals.”
Alayna was so appalled, she could not think of what to say. Was this to be Kyria’s future? But surely Lord Scathfell would see the fine person Kyria was and would fall in love with her. Kyria would be happy in her marriage, and if matters worked out with Francisco, so would Alayna.
“If not Dom Nevin, then another,” Dimitra said as she brushed out Alayna’s hair and braided it for sleep. “With your pretty face and this glorious hair, you won’t want for suitors.” She tied off the end of Alayna’s braid with a ribbon, blue like the ribbons that adorned her nightgown. “Ah, I see you will have sweet dreams tonight, if that lovely smile is any indication. Is it Dom Nevin who inspires it, or some other lord?”
Blushing, Alayna replied, “He was not in attendance tonight, nor last night, either. In fact, I have not seen him since my arrival.”
“Not seen? Not Dom Ruyven Castamir, then, for he was right there on both nights. Come, tell—oh, no! You cannot mean one of your escort party. They’re competent, to be sure, but none of them have any lands or rank. You must not throw yourself away on someone so far beneath you, not when you might have Dom Nevin.”
“The man I mean is an officer—a captain—and as worthy of a lady’s favor as any I have ever met.” Alayna retorted.
“Captain? Do you mean Francisco Alvarez?” Dimitra’s tone turned to one of pity. “Dear child, did you not know? He is married and has a child. He had scarcely enough time to kiss his wife before Lord Scathfell sent him off to arrange the ransom for your sister.”
17
Alayna spent the days that followed like a sleepwalker unable to awaken from a nightmare. Despite her attempts to follow Lord Scathfell’s advice, she could not stop thinking about Kyria, and then she was reminded of Francisco and his mission, and then she thought about Kyria again. Her feelings for Francisco had been nothing more than a foolish infatuation with an older man who was kind to her when she was alone and desperate. At least she had not thrown herself at him in any manner that might cause embarrassment. As for Edric, she concluded that his rescue must have failed or he would have sent word, or conducted Kyria here himself.
It had been spring when Alayna and Kyria left home, and now autumn was fading. There were no more balls, and those lords and ladies who had come for the wedding celebration returned home, with the exception of a few courtiers like Nevin and Ruyven. For companionship, there were a handful of elderly female relatives, the household leronis, the wife and young daughter of the coridom, and Dimitra.
In the last fine weather, Alayna sat with several other castle women in the garden courtyard, open to the sun but sheltered from winds by an arbor of rosalys and trilobed ivy. They took turns singing while working at needlepoint. Producing colorful, wear-resistant pillow covers seemed to be the responsibility of women everywhere.
At one of these gatherings, Alayna heard a clamor coming from the direction of the front gates: men shouting in greeting, horses neighing.
“Someone’s come!” Shayla, the coridom’s young daughter, said. Her needlework tumbled to the ground.
“They cannot be soldiers from Aldaran, or the alarm would have sounded,” her mother said. “Pick up your work, child. Being trampled underfoot will not improve your stitches.”
It is the party that went after Kyria! Francisco has brought her home! Every fiber in her wanted to go running to the gates. She could not bring herself to speak.
Dimitra clapped her hands for everyone’s attention. “I will send a page to find out what’s going on. Meanwhile, let us behave like ladies instead of the uncouth spawn of Trailmen.”
The other women resumed their work with not a few glances toward the castle gates. Dimitra settled herself on the bench beside Alayna. “My dear, you will not have long to wait. Lord Scathfell understands perfectly well the devotion you feel toward your sister.”
“Yes,” was all she could say.
As the moments dragged by, Alayna found poise was increasingly difficult to maintain. Sometimes she felt her cheeks heat unbearably, but the next instant she thought she was on the verge of fainting. Had she not known better, she would have thought she’d drunk too much of Dom Nevin’s strong wine. Her head swam with it, and her pulse raced.
What is taking so long? Why does he not send for me? Surely Lord Scathfell would not be so cruel as to keep them apart after such a long and anxious separation.
Has something happened to Kyria? No, that was not possible. There must be a perfectly innocuous reason for the delay, such as the greeting of two people betrothed to one another, meeting at last. And he would find much to appreciate. Perhaps he had fallen in love with Kyria at first sight and could not tear his eyes away. And Kyria, standing before her promised husband, seeing his eyes filled with adoration, feeling the same passion arising in herself . . .
Alayna allowed herself to luxuriate in the romantic images. Yes, that was a reason she could not object to. Speaking even a few words to summon Alayna might be more than he could do, so enchanted was he with his bride.
She roused at the sound of the page’s running footsteps on the garden stones. She had no idea how much time had elapsed, although the other women looked restless, unhappy with waiting. Well, they would have cause for celebration soon enough.
The page whispered to Dimitra, who turned to Alayna. “You are to attend Lord Scathfell in his presence chamber. I will escort you there.”
Dimitra set a brisk pace from the garden, along the pathway and through the castle. Alayna recognized the doors leading to the Great Hall, but then Dimitra headed down a corridor and toward the front of the castle. Yes, there was the foyer and here, a door that was new to her. Beyond lay a chamber that, while modest in size, dwarfed the Great Hall in its formality. A raised dais topped by a massive throne, now empty, dominated the far end. Other than the throne, there were no chairs.
Alayna took in the room in a glance, for her attention was immediately drawn to the cluster of men at the far end. At first she saw only their backs, their travel-stained cloaks and boots. As she reached the space in front of the dais, she saw Lord Scathfell, his face so taut and livid that she scarcely recognized him as the charming host of only a short time ago. He no longer wore the rich attire of the welcoming balls but leathers dyed in the colors of his House, and he looked like a huntsman standing over his captured prey. Kneeling at his feet, head bowed and hair falling across his face, was Francisco.
“Here is Damisela Alayna.” Lord Scathfell bit off each word. “Tell her why you have failed to ransom her sister, as you were commanded to do. What are you waiting for, man? Get up. Face her.”
Francisco lifted his head. His face was almost white. It tore at her to see him so humbled.
Alayna would have hurled herself down on the floor beside Francisco, except someone grabbed her shoulders from behind. So strong was the grip that her muscles froze. She could not have turned around to see who it was, even if she had wanted to.
“Don’t interfere. It will only make things worse.” Low and harsh, Dom Ruyven’s words took Alayna by surprise. She nodded, just the slightest movement of her head, but he did not release his grip.
Francisco stood up. He moved as if his limbs had turned to chalk. His expression did not change as he faced her.
“Once again, I have failed in a mission entrusted to me by my lord,” he said, his voice flat. “The bandits at Sain Erach were unable to negotiate a ransom. They have no hostage to exchange. Your sister is dead.”
Far away, a woman let out a piercing wail. Then blackness closed in around her.
“Stand back,” Dimitra commanded. “Let her have some air.”
Alayna swam back into bleary consciousness. She was lying on the floor in a gloo
my chamber, all dark stone. Dimitra knelt beside her, stoppering a vial. A handful of men formed a rough circle around them. Alayna recognized Lord Scathfell and Dom Ruyven, but Francisco was not among them.
“As you see, vai dom, she has merely fainted,” Dimitra said.
I will not faint. Ever. Again.
Lord Scathfell gathered Alayna in his arms and helped her to her feet. He handled her as if she were something precious. “That was unspeakably brutal. Please believe me, I had no idea you would be so affected. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Alayna looked up into his face. He was not making fun of her. In fact, he was still clearly furious, although not at her. She received the distinct impression that his anger was on her behalf.
He lifted Alayna’s hand to his lips. “Go now and rest. Dimitra, take her back to her chambers and make sure she has every comfort. You and you, go with them. Ruyven, I need you here.”
Alayna found herself ushered back through the castle. She held herself as straight as she could, out of fear that if she showed weakness, one of the guards would pick her up and carry her.
Once they’d arrived at the suite, Dimitra sent Sadhi for warming stones for the bed and then undressed Alayna, all the while clucking like a mother hen. “No one blames you for being overcome, sweetling. To lose a sister is bad enough, but in such a wretched manner? The vai dom is beside himself. You could see it in his face. He has a temper, we all know that, and especially when someone belonging to him is harmed. Mark my words, those murderers at Sain Erach will regret this day. There, there, you just have a good cry. You poor thing.”
Alayna found Dimitra’s attention a bit overwhelming. Every few moments, tears would well up, Dimitra would see them, and the process of commiseration would begin again. Alayna was soon so exhausted that she did not protest when Dimitra urged her into the newly warmed bed.
The rest of the day passed in a misery of drowsing and weeping, and trying not to weep because Dimitra kept watch in the sitting room and would hear and come in. As the hours went by and the day darkened into night, Alayna ended up with the same conclusion: Kyria must have died during a botched rescue attempt. There was no other reason for it. The bandits certainly would not have killed her when they could be richly paid for exchanging her alive.
Her death was my fault, all mine. If I had not urged Edric to go after her, none of this would have happened. Francisco would have succeeded, Lord Scathfell would be overjoyed, and Kyria would be here.
Everyone would have been happy, if it weren’t for her meddling. What had she been thinking? Some romantic nonsense about daring rescues?
They didn’t even have Kyria’s body for a proper funeral. How would she say good-bye? Oh gods, what was she going to tell her father? How could she bear his grief as well as her own?
It would be far better for her to sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night and perish of cold in the mountains. She had nothing left to live for. Francisco was lost to her, and now Kyria as well, and she couldn’t go home . . . and she was getting absolutely maudlin, feeling far too sorry for herself.
Outside, night had fallen full. Shadows shrouded the bedchamber, illuminated only by the fire she could not remember being lit and the candelabra on the mantel. She heard a knock on the outer door, then a man’s voice, too indistinct to make out words, and then Dimitra’s hushed reply. A tap sounded on the bedroom door and Dimitra entered.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
“Who was that, at the door?”
“Messages from Lord Scathfell, Dom Ruyven, and Dom Nevin, all inquiring about your condition. I must say, you’ve acquired a host of worthy admirers in such a short time.”
Of course, Lord Scathfell would ask. He was her host. As for Dom Nevin, the less she thought about him, the better.
“I told them you’re in no condition to receive visitors,” Dimitra went on, “Men have no idea how a woman’s heart works. They think we’re all too delicate to walk from one end of a ballroom to the other without assistance—except when it comes to bearing them one son after another. Once you’re married, sweetling, you must take care to keep the upper hand.”
Alayna started to protest that she had no thought of marriage, especially since she was in mourning. Still, she could not resist saying, “I hope Lord Scathfell can forgive me for making such a scene. The news about my sister—and then poor Captain Francisco—”
“That one does not deserve your sympathy.” Dimitra’s mouth twisted in disapproval. “He’s in disgrace, as well he should be. It was remarkable for Lord Scathfell to show him leniency. Another lord might have cut off Francisco’s right hand or hanged him from the top of the castle walls—”
Alayna stifled a horrified gasp.
“—but as it is, he paid Francisco his wages and exiled him. The punishment must be made public, you understand. It’s not so harsh; the captain will find work somewhere else. But Lord Scathfell is still in a sore temper about the loss of his promised bride. If you so much as mention Francisco by name, he might just change his mind and execute the captain.”
These last words had the effect of withering any further discussion.
Alayna woke the following morning to rain slanting down from a sullen gray sky. At home, when the weather was shivery sog, as Kyria liked to joke, she’d find one excuse or another to stay in bed just a little longer. The remembrance brought new tears, and tears brought spasms of sobbing, until she was so exhausted, she fell asleep again.
Sometime later, Dimitra entered, bearing a stack of fine white handkerchiefs, which she set down on the bedside table. She held one out to Alayna. “Come now, sweetling, dry your tears. You haven’t touched your breakfast.”
“I haven’t?” Alayna sat up and ran the handkerchief over her face. Her eyelids felt hot and puffy. She hadn’t even noticed the breakfast tray.
“It’s well into afternoon now. You must eat something or you’ll make yourself ill. Or, worse yet, spoil those pretty looks.”
“I’m not hungry.” Alayna threw herself back on the bed, her back to Dimitra. “And I don’t care what I look like.”
“There, there.” Dimitra stroked Alayna’s hair and back.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t try to comfort me. There’s nothing anyone can do to make me feel better.” Even as the words burst from her, she knew she was behaving like a spoiled child.
Dimitra removed her hand. Alayna shrugged the covers back over her and pretended Dimitra had gone.
One morning, a tenday later, Alayna opened her eyes to see sunlight streaming through the windows. Somewhat to her surprise, she realized she was hungry. A tray bearing a covered plate and a pitcher sat on the table before the fire. Alayna could not remember how long it had been there, but she seemed to remember similar trays on the bedside table. This one gave off the smells of fresh jaco and yes, sausages.
She was not only hungry, but her hair was tangled and greasy. Sodden handkerchiefs were strewn about the bed and under her pillow. When she tried to get out of bed, her body responded sluggishly. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt this stiff. Maybe the winter she was eight, when she and Kyria had both come down with a lung fever.
Kyria. The memory tugged at her, but the pain felt blunted, as if she had no more tears to shed.
Kyria would have a fit if she saw me now. I’m such a mess. And such a brat. Here I am, a guest with no rights beyond simple hospitality, and Domna Dimitra has tried so hard to be nice to me.
She must find a way to apologize. But first, breakfast. By the time she finished, she felt better enough to examine the pile of notes tucked under the tray. They were from Dom Nevin. All of them. She read the first one, glanced at the signatures of the others, and threw the lot in the fire.
As if on cue, Sadhi appeared to retrieve the tray. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, please. If
it’s not too much trouble, I should very much like to bathe and wash my hair. And get dressed. And speak with Dimitra, if she has a moment to spare. And send an apology to Lord Scathfell. I’m afraid I’ve been rather a burden to everyone.”
“It’s been no trouble, vai damisela. Everyone understands what you’ve been through.”
The maid returned a short time later with a parade of servants carrying buckets of steaming water. She soaked up the warmth and the sheer, sensual pleasure of having her back scrubbed and her hair soaped and then rinsed. She was sitting in front of the fire, wearing a clean dressing gown, when Dimitra came in.
“You’re looking much better, sweetling. Sadhi tells me you’re eating again. I am glad to hear it. Jerana, our leronis, said you were in no danger, but I worried, nonetheless.”
Alayna sprang to her feet and took Dimitra’s hands. “You were so kind to me, and I behaved like a spoiled child. Can you forgive me? As for Lord Scathfell—what must he think?”
“As for Lord Scathfell, the best amends will be to see you smile again,” Dimitra replied in a gentle tone.
“I dare not face him. Not yet, anyway. If he spoke to me, I’d probably burst into tears. The poor man has his own sorrows to contend with.”
“I assure you, Lord Scathfell will not be undone by a few tears. But perhaps you are wise to take things slowly. What do you say to joining the other ladies at their needlework this afternoon? Will that be within your strength?”
Alayna had never considered needlework strenuous, although it was certainly a suitable occupation for a lady. Not like—no, she would not think of the pranks Kyria had got up to.
Dimitra must have had a word or three with the other women. When she and Alayna entered the solarium, no one asked difficult questions or commented on Alayna’s pale cheeks or the way her clothes hung loosely. Jerana, sitting apart from the others and setting tiny stitches in squares of fabric, looked up with bright, measuring eyes. Marianna, the coridom’s wife, was teaching her daughter how to knit socks. The scene looked so domestic and homelike that Alayna felt a fresh torrent of tears ready to gush forth.