Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (21 page)

“I’m sorry,” Morgin said. “Rhianne’s coming
today. I guess my mind’s just not on swords.”

France smiled. “Well now, lad, that’s the
most encouraging thing I’ve heard you say. The ladies is as good a
reason as any fer not thinkin’ about fightin’. Then again,
sometimes it’s the ladies we do our fightin’ about, ain’t it?”

Morgin nodded. “Do you know why she’s
coming?”

“Sure, lad. Everyone knows. The whole
castle’s abuzz with it. You an’ the little lady are gonna get
married, eh?”

“Yes,” Morgin said. “But not today. Father
says we’ll sign the marriage contracts today. The wedding will be
in the fall.”

“You don’t sound too awful excited about it,
lad. I thought you liked that pretty little thing.”

Morgin shrugged. “I do. But I’m not sure she
really likes me, not that way, though father says most marriages of
high caste are political, to bind some interclan agreement, and
they have nothing to do with what the bride and groom want.”

France dipped another ladle of water, sipped
at it. “Is that how it is with you and the little lady?”

Morgin thought of the last time he’d seen
Rhianne. She was always kind to him, and friendly, and polite, but
her feelings for him ended there. She often sought him out, but to
her he was just a friend whose company she enjoyed. She often said
she’d much rather talk with him than with her gossipy girlfriends,
and then she might proceed to tell him of her latest true love, her
latest conquest: usually some handsome young lord born to one of
the great houses of the Lesser Clans. So Morgin was careful to keep
his feelings to himself, because every time he saw her he could
think of no one else for days. She might laugh at him if he ever
told her he was infatuated with her.

Morgin sighed, shook his head. “Yes and no.
I rather like her, but I don’t think she knows I exist. I mean
we’re friends, but not in that way. And besides, I didn’t even know
about it until last month. I never really thought about
marriage.”

France had a faraway look in his eyes.
“There was this lady once. Got it in her head that we was gonna get
married, her an’ me. Sure took me by surprise.”

“And you got out of it?”

“Ya,” France said. “I got out of it. Is that
what you want? To get out of it? Tell me, how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“And the little lady?”

“Eighteen.”

“Well now. Seems to me yer parents done you
right. From what I seen of the little lady she’s awful pretty, and
she’s got a smart head on her shoulders too.”

“I know,” Morgin said. “Mother says that’s
one of the reasons she consented to this marriage. She says she
wants her sons to marry intelligent women, not mindless child
bearers.”

“Well, lad. Remember that being part of the
family you’re part of, you’d have to get married sometime anyway.
Better her than someone else, eh?”

Morgin nodded.

“And look at yer brother. When they come up
with a bride for ol’ JohnEngine, bet she’ll be some old crone of a
she-bat, twice his age and with a tongue like fire. But she’ll have
money, or land, or soldiers, or something yer grandmother wants.
You can bet on that.”

“But it’s all happening so fast.”

“That’s part of being a prince, lad.”

“I ain’t no prince,” Morgin said hotly.

“No. You ain’t no prince. And you ain’t much
of a swordsman neither. But that don’t mean you can start talkin’
like me. Yer mother’ll have me hide fer teachin’ ya improper
speakin’.”

“But what am I going to do?”

France shrugged. “Well lad. Let’s see what
yer options are. One: you can flat refuse to marry the little lady.
That’d shame her, her family too. And it probably wouldn’t work
anyway.”

Morgin shook his head. “I could never do
that.”

“Two: you could just run away. Give up
everything you got here. And if you feel that strongly about it,
I’ll go with ya, lad.”

Morgin shook his head again.

“Okay. Three: I suppose you could insult the
little lady’s father, or even Wylow. That’s it! Insult the great
Lord Wylow, leader of clan and head of House Inetka, make ‘im so
pissed-off they won’t sign no marriage contract. But you’d likely
end up challenged to a duel. And I’d hate to lose you, lad.”

“Seems to me I have to marry her.”

France shook his head. “You got the wrong
attitude. You don’t have to do nothin’. If yer really set against
it, go talk to yer parents. They’re soft touches. They’ll smooth
things over so ya don’t have to marry the poor girl and nobody’s
feelings are hurt.”

“I can’t do that.”

“No. You can’t, can you? ‘cause you want to
marry her, but you’re worried about how she feels. Well you
remember this: you’re a son of the greatest house of the greatest
of the Lesser Clans. She’ll be real happy about that. And I’m sure
she knows her place when it comes to marriage. She’ll come
around.”

Just then one of the kitchen maids walked
by, a shapely young woman who seemed to have an eye for France.
Morgin had been watching her pursue him for some days now, though
the swordsman obviously thought it was he who was doing the
pursuing.

France’s head turned slowly as she walked
past, his eyes locked to the sway of her hips. He stood. “Well lad.
You best run along now. Get cleaned up fer yer ladylove. All this
sword practicin’s made me a mite hungry. Think I’ll head over to
the kitchen and see if I can’t hunt me down a bite to eat.”

He walked away quickly, his attention now
fully on the charms of the kitchen maid.

Morgin watched France go and thought
carefully about Rhianne. Rhianne had always been more of a fantasy
than a reality, until Roland had told him about the negotiated
marriage contracts only the month before. He and AnnaRail and
Olivia had been negotiating with Rhianne’s parents for some time
now, and neither she nor Morgin had been informed of the situation
until the negotiations were complete. Morgin had always known he’d
have no say in the choice of his wife, but now that the situation
was upon him . . .

The Inetkas arrived later that afternoon.
Not merely Rhianne and her family, but Wylow too, and Annaline and
her husband SandoFall, and a large retinue that threw all of
Elhiyne into a panic. Morgin tried to get Rhianne alone, but other
than a short greeting when she first arrived, at which she seemed
rightfully ill at ease, he had little chance to see or speak to
her. And then Olivia had some tasks for him and he didn’t see
Rhianne again until the banquet that evening, and even there the
formality of the occasion came between them.

Olivia and Wylow sat that evening in the
central positions of the long banquet table, with Morgin and
Rhianne to either side of them. They were separated by only a few
feet, but with the leaders of the two clans between them it might
as well have been the entire length of the hall. Dinner lasted an
eternity, and too the short ceremony that followed, though several
times Rhianne flashed him a friendly smile. But the twinkle that
normally sparked within her eyes was gone that night, and he
understood that she needed time to adjust.

The betrothal ceremony began with Olivia and
Wylow, each of whom stood and gave a short speech then signed both
copies of the contract. Next, the parents of both betrothed stepped
forth and signed, smiling and happy, congratulating one another on
making such an excellent match. Olivia then turned and handed the
pen to Morgin. She said simply, “Sign, grandson.”

Morgin did so quietly, saying nothing, glad
to speed the ceremony in any way possible. Then it was Rhianne’s
turn, and she too signed quickly.

The festivities were short lived since most
of the Inetkas were tired from their long journey. A few clansmen
wanted to celebrate all night, JohnEngine among them. He got
quickly drunk, then went off with the others to do some wenching in
the village.

When the banquet finally came to an end
Morgin and Rhianne were suddenly left to their own devices. “We
have to talk,” he said. “Alone.”

She smiled, though again it was forced, and
there was a shyness in her that he’d never seen before. “Yes,” she
said. “Let’s find some place to talk.”

He led her to Roland’s study, took some
moments to light a lamp, was glad for the time it gave them both to
think without an uncomfortable silence stretching out between them.
When the lamp was lit he closed the door.

She walked casually past him, pretended to
look at the scrolls that lined the walls, and the uncomfortable
silence that he’d hoped to avoid filled the room nevertheless. When
he could take it no longer, he said, “I’ll be a good husband. I
promise.”

She turned to face him, smiled a little less
woodenly. “I know you will. You’re a good man, Morgin. And I’ll
make you a good wife. I . . .” The thought died on
her lips. She closed her mouth, lowered her eyes.

All he could think about in that moment was
how she was so incredibly beautiful, and so sad. “Does the thought
of marriage to me bother you so much?”

“Oh no,” she said, but she turned away from
him to look at the books again. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it? It’s been on your face all
evening.”

The room stood quiet and still for a long
moment. He heard her sniffle, but with her back to him he could not
be sure she was crying. He watched the back of her shoulders rise
as she took a deep breath. They were bare shoulders, exposed by a
low cut gown that achieved its purpose magnificently; shoulders
that were soft, smooth, and lightly olive in hue.

“I am eighteen years of age,” she said
finally. “The fourth of four daughters of a rather minor lord of
the least powerful of the Lesser Clans. As such my prospects at
marriage have always been quite limited. My mother made me aware of
that when I was young. She taught me that beauty was easily had,
and just as easily lost. She taught me that if I ever hoped to
marry well, I must improve my prospects by improving my mind. She
taught me to read, to write, to manage a large household. I’ve
learned to keep accounts and tally goods. I’ve learned much, so
that some lord might find me useful beyond the bedroom.”

She turned suddenly to face him. Her eyes
were red, though she managed not to cry. “Oh Morgin! You and I, we
are too alike: no birthright and little power. Don’t you see?” she
pleaded. “Together we can only compete for mediocrity.”

She suddenly buried her face in her hands.
“Oh what am I saying? It’s done. The contracts are signed and the
marriage will be.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “I will make
you a good wife. I promise. But all my life I have been prepared
for marriage as a piece of property is prepared for sale. And when
your family petitioned for a marriage contract, my father saw it as
a stroke of incredibly good fortune. An Elhiyne! He couldn’t have
hoped for more. But you must understand. My mother and I had
prepared for something far different. We . . .”

Her voice trailed away into nothingness. It
left a painful, lonely stillness. “I had hoped to marry a great
lord,” she whispered into the stillness.

“But I can be a great lord,” he said. “I am
an Elhiyne. I may never be one of the clan’s leaders, but I am an
Elhiyne.”

She turned away from him then, as if she
couldn’t say what followed to his face. “My mother was born of one
of the oldest families in Inetka, and forced to marry far beneath
her caste. You must understand. The blood of my family has been in
the clans for centuries. And you—” But there she stopped, unable to
say more.

It took him a moment to realize the
implication in her words, and anger crawled up his throat. “And
mine hasn’t?” he demanded.

“It’s just that . . .” she
stuttered. “I can’t . . . I need time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to adjust, to get used to the
idea.”

The room felt suddenly cold. “To get used to
what idea?”

“That I’m . . . That
you’re . . .” Her voice trailed away, softly
disappearing into the stillness of the room.

“That I’m what?” he exploded. He grabbed her
by the shoulders, spun her to face him and shook her violently.
“Finish it. Say it. I’m the bastard whoreson, am I not? That’s what
you were about to say, isn’t it? That’s what bothers you so much,
that the sweet pure blood of your almighty family might be
contaminated by that of a mongrel off the streets.”

“No, Morgin,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean
that. Not that.”

“Liar,” he screamed. “I thought you were
different from the rest, but you’re no better than any of them.” He
shook her violently, gripped her shoulders so tightly she winced,
pulled her face close to his. “Damn you!” he growled. “If you don’t
want me, then I’ll not have you.” He pushed her away, saw her fall
to the floor in a flurry of petticoats, turned away from her and
ran out of the room.

Morgin’s eyes were filled with glimpses of
servants scurrying out of his way as he stormed through the halls
of Elhiyne. He paid no heed to direction, nor did he care, but
without consciously intending to he approached Olivia’s audience
chamber. She would be there, with Malka and Marjinell and his
parents, entertaining Wylow and Rhianne’s parents privately.

Avis wanted to announce him, but Morgin
brushed him aside and burst into the chamber. They all turned
toward him instantly, but he was conscious only of Olivia, and her
eyes. And before any of them could speak he snarled, “She doesn’t
want to marry me.”

“What?” Wylow asked sharply.

Morgin turned to the Inetka leader. “She
doesn’t want to marry a bastard whoreson.”

Edtoall looked angrily at Matill. “This is
your doing, woman. You’ve been filling her head with those
fantasies of yours again.” He looked at Morgin. “Pay no attention
to her, lad. She will marry you.”

Morgin turned his anger on Edtoall. “But
I’ll not have her,” he shouted. “If she thinks her blood is too
good for me she can damn well marry whomever she pleases.”