King (7 page)

 7 

A
kabe stared at Parne's chief priest, unable to believe what he'd just heard. “You refuse my request?”

Though Ishvah Nesac paled, he shook his head. “Majesty, she's an Atean! You, as one of the Infinite's faithful, cannot—must not!—marry an Atean!”

“Do you not wish to see the Infinite's Holy House rebuilt?”

“It is my dream, Majesty. Yet if this dream cannot be, I will mourn its loss, as I mourn Parne—until I draw my last breath in this fallen world.” Nesac lifted his thin, scholarly hands, an imploring gesture. “Majesty, consider—I beg you!—an Atean wife could very well lead your heart away from the Infinite.”

“Or I might lead her heart to the Infinite,” Akabe argued. Did everyone consider him to be so weak?

The chief priest pressed a hand to his forehead, as if thinking were suddenly difficult. “Have you consulted Siphra's prophets? Have you sought the Infinite's will?”

“Yes. He has been silent. However,” Akabe changed tactics, “if my decisions dishonor my Creator, won't He then tell His prophets to rebuke me? Yet how can rebuilding the temple displease the Infinite? Help me fulfill this work for Him, Nesac.
I beg you!
Otherwise . . .” Akabe leaned forward, meaning every word, “I will search Siphra for a priest who sees, as I see—that Siphra needs its temple, its strength, and its faith restored!”

Nesac closed his eyes, undoubtedly praying. After a long instant, he sighed and looked at Akabe. “I will continue to pray, Majesty. For you and your wife. And for me, that I will never regret blessing this marriage.”

His words fell on Akabe's spirit so heavily that Akabe couldn't rejoice. Not that he wanted to rejoice. Thaenfall had set a snare, and Akabe had stepped into it, eyes open.

There was no other way. None!

He
must
complete this task he'd begun—this pledge he'd given his people for their temple. He would deal with his priests' opinions and his counselors' arguments as they cropped up. As for Caitria and her family . . . may the Infinite protect him!

He managed to smile at the unhappy priest. “Thank you.”

Formally attired and standing in the palace's ceremonial hall before his council and invited witnesses, Akabe sighed inwardly, feeling condemned.

He was about to marry an Atean.

Akabe hoped his people would understand. Their king certainly didn't.

Even so . . . Infinite . . . be with us. Akabe fastened a gold armband about Caitria Thaenfall's slender bicep, then clasped her cold hand. She stared straight ahead as Ishvah Nesac pronounced hesitant blessings upon the royal marriage. The blessings sounded more like a death sentence.

For consecrated land, chosen by the Infinite at Siphra's beginning.

As Ishvah's blessing ended, Akabe glanced down at his wife again. Caitria hesitantly looked up, wincing under Akabe's scrutiny. At least it was clear she didn't aspire to be a queen. Standing beside Caitria, Cyril obviously noticed her expression. He gave his sister a ferocious scowl that warned her to behave. Caitria glared at him.

Adjacent to the siblings, Cyan Thaenfall, Lord of the Plidian Estates, studied Akabe as if seeing an oddity that should
not exist. And perhaps he was correct. As Siphra's king, Akabe certainly felt like a pretender just now. Particularly with most of his council members and courtiers showing hostile frowns, or—at best—bleak acceptance for this marriage.

Akabe nodded to Thaenfall, then led Cyan, Caitria, and Cyril into a meeting chamber. There a clerk waited, his worktable organized with vials, cords, parchments, pens, and a wavering lamp flame positioned beneath a warming stand, which held a small pan of melted crimson wax.

Seeing Akabe, the clerk produced two copies of the marriage agreement—so sniffily that Akabe nearly growled. He spoke to Thaenfall instead. “Here's the new contract, my lord. It's obvious I've fulfilled my obligation. Therefore, let's read and sign.”

Akabe stood beside the haughty lord, reading his own copy of the agreement. Every clause seemed proper and concise. Akabe of Siphra agreed to marry Caitria Thaenfall, with the permission of Cyan Thaenfall, Lord of the Plidian Estates. Furthermore, having paid the negotiated sum, Akabe would bestow upon Caitria all the rights, lands, revenues, and marks of rank due to the queen of Siphra—never to be revoked without justifiable cause, noted in clauses, as long as they both lived.

Evidently finished reading, Thaenfall snatched a gilded stylus, jabbed it into an ink vial, and scrawled his name at the bottom of each parchment. Out of turn, yet Akabe wasn't about to rebuke the man.

Akabe signed both documents less hastily. The fussy clerk applied the royal seals, and Thaenfall grabbed his copy of the document. Flat-voiced, he told Caitria, “In nine months, I expect to hear that you've borne an heir for Siphra.”

Thaenfall bowed to Akabe and departed, snapping his fingers at Cyril as if the young man were a dog commanded to follow at his heels.

Neither man looked back. Stunned, Akabe listened as their footsteps faded and the door closed with a muffled thud. Was Thaenfall always so rude and unfeeling toward his children?

Akabe looked down at Caitria, who still stared at the doorway as if unable to believe what had just happened. Sympathetic despite his own frustrations, Akabe wrapped his hands around Caitria's. She stared up at him now, dazed as a wounded creature.

Beyond them, gathering his pens, wax, and cords, the clerk said, “The queen should have signed the document, Majesty. Yet I suppose it's no matter. The marriage contract will stand.”

Caitria's chin quivered.

Still furious with Thaenfall, Akabe held Caitria as she cried. Over her head, he gave the clerk a meaningful glance and sternly nodded everyone toward the hall. When all the witnesses had departed and closed the door, Akabe smoothed Caitria's hair, marveling at its sheen and delicious scent. “This whole matter was handled badly—you deserved better. I'm sorry.”

She stiffened in his arms and pulled back, gazing at him in evident confusion. And hurt. “Sir, why should you care more about my feelings than my own family has?”

Akabe lifted a strand of Caitria's hair plastered to her cheek by tears. “Lady, I am now your family.”

Caitria sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

Apparently not the answer she'd wanted.

Akabe opened his eyes the merest fraction, aware first of Caitria asleep beside him, then of the door creaking open. A servant lit the hearth, then departed, softly closing the door. The first sounds of Akabe's day, as usual, made him hate being a king. Servants appearing and disappearing like shadows always raised Akabe's instincts to hide or to defend himself.

Which explained the dagger he hid beneath his pillow each night.

Any of these servants could be an assassin, the way they slipped through the palace. He must remind his guards to be vigilant. They'd failed him before. If they failed him again, Caitria's life would be equally endangered—a risk Akabe could not allow.
She was now, by all of Siphra's legal requirements, his wife. She merited his protection.

Hearing her stir, Akabe touched Caitria's tender face, then kissed her cheek. If only necessity hadn't forced him to marry a stranger—he hated being so unsure of his queen . . . his
wife
. But perhaps he could lessen their mutual emotional distance. He snagged his overtunic from the foot of the bed, flung it on, then stood. “Good morning, lady. I'm expected at various meetings today. Before then, however, let's share the morning meal.”

She nodded and sat up, still seeming half asleep as she reached for her chamber robe and slippers. Akabe waited for her to speak, to say something . . . anything. But she moved about in that same speechless daze of last evening. How long would it take for her to recover from her father's harsh abandonment?

It might help if he corrected his own unhappy acceptance of their marriage.

As Caitria donned her robe and swept her hair off her neck, Akabe glimpsed a darkened mark on her pale skin. A bruise on her throat, just behind her ear.

Akabe strode around the bed, startling her. She froze, her brown eyes huge. Did she fear he would strike her? He halted within arm's reach and opened his hands gently, matching his cautious movements with hushed words. “Stand still, lady, only for an instant.” He slid his hands beneath her hair, lifting the soft, sweetly scented brown waves off her neck. Not one bruise, but two. Someone had held Caitria by the back of her neck. Viciously and recently. “Who gave you these bruises? Your brother?”

“No, my lord.”

“Your father then.”

She waited, not arguing with his conclusion.

Akabe released her hair and stepped back, watching her. “Why was he angry with you?”

“Because I . . . behaved thoughtlessly, and . . . spoke contrary to his wishes.”

“Concerning what?”

Caitria looked away, her elegant face setting in stubborn lines. Clearly, she would refuse to elaborate further. “It's unimportant now, Majesty.”

Unimportant? Not by the look of those bruises. Akabe suppressed a frown. He could only guess that they'd quarreled about this marriage. She'd argued against it, failed, and suffered. For which he must bear the blame. Well enough. He touched her face, running his fingers along that stubborn, lovely jawline. When she glanced at him warily, he said, “This will not happen again. Granted, we've been compelled to accept this marriage, but for as long as I live, I will not allow you to experience further abuse such as this!”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she swallowed, so pitiable that Akabe felt compelled to hug and console her. In his thoughts, chief priest Nesac warned again,
Majesty, consider—I beg you!—an Atean wife could very well lead your heart away from the Infinite. . . .

Was this how such a divergence of faith might begin?

A vulnerable instant.

The longing to protect . . .

The progression was more subtle and more treacherous than he'd believed. Would he be able to withstand such temptation?