Solace Arisen (13 page)

The servant coming in to light the candles took him aback. The evening had passed to night, but he was not in the least tired or eager for it to end. His father had grown animated with drink and was telling about how he’d rescued a young Lady Martise from an overturned buggy. “She was a wild driver, still likes a fast two-wheeler...”

Ari smiled as she used to.

Degarius detached himself from the current story; he had heard it a dozen times. Glass in hand, he leaned his weight far back into the chair and found himself suspended in one of those rare moments in which one was acutely aware of the beauty of ordinary life. Was it the effect of the wine? It distilled the raw taste of life into something more potent, yet paradoxically more soothing, than the original fruit. Was it the pleasure of presiding at his table? Or was it the simple relief in knowing the course of his next days? And Ari, he couldn’t help but look at her. The chair, the room, the whole of the house seemed somehow connected to her as if she’d always been a part of this place, of his life. His head throbbed. How had everything gone wrong?

“Steward,” he called, and whispered instructions.

A short while later, the man brought the bottle. Degarius decanted three glasses of brandy. He’d had the same vintage at Sarapost House in Shacra Paulus. He held the glass to his nose. The floral smell blossomed. With one sip, warmth filled his mouth. He thought of Fassal’s slobbering dog, of the pinging hammers in Teodor’s shop, of how the sea lapping one’s feet could banish the hottest afternoon. He recalled Ari’s battle to keep her hem modestly above the water while trying to enjoy the beach with childlike wonder. His heart beat harder as he remembered how it felt to hold her against his chest. To kiss her. “It’s funny,” he said, “when I drank this in Acadia it made me think of home. Now, it brings to mind Acadia.”

“Then it must have an unpleasant finish,” Ari said and pushing her glass away, bid them good night in Gherian.

“You’re not done with your brandy,” his father said.

“It’s quite excellent, but I believe I have had too much to drink already.”

The glow in Degarius’s head vanished. He was suddenly sober. He wouldn’t attempt to detain her. Flush in the contentment of being home, he had ventured too near pointless sentimentality. It was really the product of the vineyard. Animosity, which was for the best, came back in all its original vigor. She was beautiful. So what. Thousands of other women were beautiful. He remembered exactly why things went wrong between them.

He was glad when his father lit a pipe. Besides an appreciation of good wine, the occasional indulgence in altartish was the other thing they had in common. “At least one could get exceptional altartish in Acadia,” Degarius said.

“Acadia.” His father sighed and passed the pipe. “One thing has been bothering me. I should have warned you about Hera Solace and Prince Lerouge. But I guessed you would take exception to my meddling. Lady Martise wrote to me she suspected an attachment on both your parts.”

Degarius exhaled a stream of altartish. “I assure you there was none on mine.”

His father seemed not to hear through the veil of smoke between them. “I could have told you to be careful of Lerouge, but Lady Martise thought him over it.”

“He could’ve had her,” Degarius said with an offhand smirk.

His father put down the pipe and winced. “Have her? Lady Martise and I were at Summercrest this spring when she refused him. He lost his sense and beat her. Not a slap across the face, Myronan. He was brutal.”

Degarius dipped a fingertip into the melted candle wax. “Refused him? That is impossible.”

When the story penetrated his altartish-thickened skull and nearly held convictions of her impiety, Degarius fixed his bleary vision on the chair where she had sat. She’d not sought Lerouge. She’d refused him, refused to be queen of Acadia. A fierce heat flooded from Degarius’s chest into his hands. How could he have doubted her? How? And that bastard Lerouge had laid his hands on her. Hurt Ari. She should have told him. No, of course she wouldn’t have told him. She was proud. And there were things they couldn’t say to each other. He wanted to crush or throw something, anything to get rid of the pressure centered in his knuckles. The brandy bottle or a chair? Not with his father in the room. He directed all his energy into keeping his hands rigid, tensioning them like set trap springs.

“I should have told you,” his father said. “If you had known, you would never have run afoul of Lerouge. This lot wouldn’t have fallen to the two of you.”

“If I had known...” Degarius’s voice broke. “I wouldn’t have regretted killing him.”

“You should go upstairs, talk to her.”

Talk to her? It would be as pointless as trying to make peace with the Gherians. She hated him because he’d given her every reason in the world to. Could he respect her if she did forgive him? He’d chosen to flame his anger over the generalship instead of believe her. He remembered the pleading look in her eyes as she told him she never loved Lerouge. How could she forgive him for choosing anger over faith in her?

Talk to her? His father had no idea of how cruel he’d been in matters big and small. He’d vehemently denied loving her. Those words seemed like fair retribution for his loss. But she was innocent. How did they seem to her? Cruel. He was no better than that bastard Lerouge. Then, he’d upbraided her for buying the nightgown and she’d given it away without hope of ever wearing it. She’d only wanted to be womanly, even if only in the privacy of the night. Ari’s only fault was that she’d loved Nan Degarius—a love that cost her greatly. She’d given the Blue Eye to Lerouge. Now, she was entangled in a plan that would likely demand a sacrifice of her he couldn’t even name. And when she prayed for Kieran, it had sounded hollow, as if she had no faith in goodness anymore. Damn it, he’d meant it in the attic when he told her he didn’t want her to have to go to the Forbidden Fortress. What honorable man could ask it of a woman? And there was no way in hell he could let the woman he loved do it. If he went upstairs and by some miracle she forgave him....

An unbidden image coalesced from the gray fog of regret that sat so heavy on the fore of his mind. In her blue nightgown, she was in his bed. He knelt astride her knees. His hand smoothed upward along her thigh and over her hip, drawing the gown up with it. So lovely. There were innumerable beautiful women in the world, but he hadn’t wanted them in the same way he wanted her. He wanted to be gentle, to please her in the most open and most vulnerable act—a man and woman giving themselves to each other. He’d never wanted to love anyone like that before. It had always been about lust, relief, or simple opportunity. He would lean forward, sweep his hair across her stomach and breasts, then go closer and kiss....

No. None of those things could happen. If they did, it would be utterly unbearable going with her to Gheria. Some men were braver going into a fight knowing they had everything to lose. His bravery was of a different sort. Things had to remain as they were. Animosity was for the best. Otherwise, how could he wholeheartedly fight The Scyon or the draeden? So many people, not just the Sarapostan troops, depended on
them
.

Degarius unclenched his hands, took the brandy bottle, and poured another drink for his father and himself. As he sat down the bottle he said, “Swear to me that if I don’t return, you’ll give her the funds held in my name in Sarapost. She has nothing.”

I
t was time to leave. From her bedroom, which overlooked the front lawn, Arvana watched the coach and four pull around. If she’d been Degarius, she’d never have left this place. But then again, she’d never have left Sylvania, or Solace, had she any choice. A fierce cold wind, which had blown in during the night, whistled through the cracks in the window casing and whipped the horses’ manes and tails. She’d need the fur coat and hat Mrs. Karlkin had unhappily laid on the bed. Arvana wanted to tell the woman she’d have just as little pleasure wearing it. It was a gorgeous coat, all of red fox fur. Her mother’s coat had only a velvet collar, and she had thought it the finest thing in the world. She’d wanted to look grown-up, to look beautiful.

On the morning of the day when everything changed, she begged her father to override Allasan’s objection to her going on the sleigh ride. “I’ll finish my chores when I get back.”

Her father tapped his coffee cup lightly.

Arvana paused with her mug at her lips.
Maker
,
please let him say yes.

“Let Ari go,” her father said. “With the snow, I can’t work on the pasture fence. Stable chores will give me something to do.”

“But then there won’t be room for one of my friends.” Allasan’s fist thumped the table.

As if his blind eyes could still see, her father turned his face toward Allasan. “You can take turns riding,” he said with a finality that meant another contrary word and no one would be sleighing.

“Fine.” Allasan pushed away his coffee without taking a drink.

Arvana scrambled up the loft ladder. She unbound her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair to separate the waves. No, she wouldn’t wear a cap and spoil it. She opened her chest and took out the coat with the velvet collar.

When she came down, she stood at her father’s side at the table. “I’m wearing Mama’s coat. Do you want to see?”

He rose and ran his hands up the sleeves and over her shoulders to the velvet collar. “I always liked that collar.” He smiled, but it was a half-happy nostalgic smile. “I can never believe you’re so tall.” His fingers lightly touched down the length of her hair. “And your hair is so long. That’s nice.” He patted the collar once more.

“I don’t see why you’re leaving just as you’ve gotten here,” said Mrs. Karlkin, as she came to Arvana’s side. She carried a blue silk-covered case with a pair of gloves atop it. Her usual smile was absent. “I found these gloves for you,” she said and laid the gloves beside the coat. Amazingly supple and soft-looking, they had to be kid leather. She handed Arvana the silk-covered box. Inside was a gold ring set with a green gem and collar-style double-strand pearl necklace with a pendant that matched the ring.

“Lord Degarius asked me to give these to you to wear so you look like a lady,” Mrs. Karlkin said of the jewels. There was an apologetic tone in her voice, as if she regretted having to fulfill her master’s bidding.

Arvana knew full well why he hadn’t given them himself, had sent the jewels with Mrs. Karlkin. He didn’t want her to mistake the gesture. Of course, he’d sent them as a matter of necessity. They were to be brother and sister traveling to the Winter Solemnity. With a handsome coach and fine clothes, he was obviously a man of great means. It would appear strange if she didn’t exhibit the same degree of wealth. And what wealth! The pearls alone were expensive, and if the gems were emeralds it would be worth a fortune. She held up the necklace. “Are the gems real?”

“I’m certain they are.”

Necessity or not, thinking aloud, Arvana said, “I’d rather not wear them.” They were a sad reminder of Lina’s fate and the trap of vanity.

Mrs. Karlkin put a hand to her breast and bowed. “Beg pardon, I understand none of this. I’m only doing as ordered. He’s my master.”

“Yes, forgive me.” It was wrong to put Mrs. Karlkin, who’d been nothing but kindness, in the middle of their bitterness. Arvana brought the ends of the necklace to the back of her neck and fidgeted with the clasp. It was tricky, wouldn’t close properly.

“Let me help,” Mrs. Karlkin said.

Arvana gave over the necklace and held up her hair so Mrs. Karlkin could fasten it. The Blue Eye gazed up from between her breasts—the housekeeper was removing it. Arvana cupped her hand over the locket. “I must leave it on.”

“But it spoils the look.”

“I know, but it’s a personal heirloom. I always wear it.”

The response satisfied the housekeeper. “Does the ring fit?”

Arvana took it, glanced between her hands, and then despised herself for even a second of indecision. She was to wear it on her right hand, not on the hand closest to her heart, the hand on which she’d worn the Solacian silver novitiate’s ring. With a slight twist at her knuckle, it was on, but it felt odd, as did the necklace. The finery, like the revealing dress, didn’t belong on her. She was like a little girl secretly trying on her mother’s things. Not
her
mother’s things. Her mother never had anything remotely as elegant—not even that coat with the velvet collar. Arvana took Lina’s fur hat. It had a deep crown. When she placed it on her head, the rolled brim of fur came down to her eyes and was soft against her cheeks.