The Fall of Neskaya (24 page)

“Ah!” Damian rubbed his hands together. “I have such an appetite tonight! Where is dinner? Sweet lady, how gracious of you to join us.”

Taniquel hesitated, then gave him an abbreviated curtsy, one she had been taught in Castle Hastur as befitting a noble young girl to an older man of lower rank.

King Damian seemed not to notice the implied slight. He had already turned away, clapping his men on the shoulders and dismissing them. Another uniformed man brought in a tray with bread, cheese, a bowl of winter apples, and a tureen of some kind of herbed soup, the sort of hearty food the kitchen could prepare quickly when there was no time for anything more elaborate. She waited, standing quietly, while Damian and his son took their seats.

“Lady, please sit. This is hardly a formal dinner and the meal comes from your own kitchens. Reynaldo! Where is the chair for the lady?”

“I thank you,” Taniquel said, her throat tightening, “but I have come about quite another matter. You promised me I might bury my husband in honor. Yet when I went to see that all was properly done, laying him out in the chapel, I was forbidden to leave my rooms.”

“Ah, a minor miscommunication, nothing more.” Damian took a knife from his belt and began slicing the pale, waxy cheese into neat slivers. “I regret any inconvenience, but the establishment of order must take precedence over less urgent matters. Be assured, all will be done as it should.”

“Why was I not allowed to leave my rooms?”

“It would not be seemly—or safe—for a gentle lady to wander through the castle at this time,” Damian said. “In the aftermath of the battle, blood runs hot. My men are well trained and loyal, but they are, after all, men. For your own safety—”

“I want to see my husband’s body.” Taniquel’s jaw muscles ached with tension as she bit off each word.

“Calm yourself, please,” said Damian, carefully putting away his knife. “This is a difficult time for you. You can have no reason to trust us, for you do not know us. But you will, and will see how foolish these present fears are. All things happen in their proper order. Please understand that while no disrespect is intended, for your lord was a most worthy opponent, it is to no one’s benefit to turn his burial into a rallying point for malcontents. We must go carefully here. Quietly.”

Quietly.
What did that mean?

“His own
coridom
and chief counselor,” Belisar spoke for the first time, “—what was the old man’s name, Father? Gabriel?”

“Gavriel,” Taniquel said in a low voice.

“—yes, they have laid him out in the chapel. I myself made sure that candles and incense have been provided. He is well attended.” Belisar sipped his soup as if that concluded the matter. “You need not trouble yourself.”

“Am I not to be permitted to see him, then?” Taniquel persisted.

“Domna,”
Damian said with an edge of steel in his voice. “His face was damaged during the battle. We men of action are accustomed to looking upon the unfortunate effects of war, but a lady of breeding and delicate sensibilities must be protected against such sights. Be guided by us in this, rest content in our care. Tomorrow you will walk with the funeral party, as is your right.”

“Walk? Would you deny Padrik the traditional rites as well? It is the custom in Acosta to ride—”

“It is
our
custom to walk to the burial site, out of respect for the dead. However, if the distance is too far for you to manage on your own, a litter can be arranged.”

“I—” Taniquel reined in her tongue, struggling to think clearly. She had stumbled into some terrible gauntlet, where each blow followed hard and fast upon the one before.

“Once that is done,” Damian went on, “we will celebrate both a marriage and a coronation.”

“I have not yet consented to the marriage,” she reminded him, and knew in an instant how futile protests would be. Her own wishes meant nothing. More than one unwilling bride had been married by proxy, with a lackey speaking the words for her. Or drugged or forcibly held while the
catenas
bracelet was locked upon her wrist.

After Damian’s speech in the throne room, all of Acosta would think her lucky to have such a handsome, noble, generous husband. Her only hope was to escape before the ceremony and as yet she had no plan. A botched attempt would be worse than useless, for she would be guarded even more closely, perhaps even chained as the Dry Towners did their women. She would have only one chance.

After once again refusing food, she retired back to her chambers, pleading a long and tiring day. Her words proved more true than she intended, for she was reeling with exhaustion by the time the guard escorted her back to her chambers. Without the ministrations of her ladies, she would have fallen across the wide bed without bothering to take off her clothes.

T
aniquel never knew who made the arrangements for Padrik’s funeral, although she hoped it had been Gavriel or the
coridom,
someone who loved him. Never since the time she had arrived at Acosta Castle as a scrawny, rebellious orphan had she felt so shut out of things. When Padrik’s father, old King Ian-Valdir, had died, she had worked from dawn into the evenings, helping with the funeral plans, preparing rooms for senior vassal lords come for the burial, and supervising the kitchens. Now her door stayed locked until after noontime, when two Ambervale officers presented themselves as her escort. She took Rosalys and Verella with her for the long slow walk to the Acosta family plot.

Taniquel had watched dawn come through the high slit windows. Gradually the sky lightened to the color of tears and then to softly opalescent gold. But the day which had begun clear and fair turned overcast by the afternoon. Taniquel’s ladies had insisted on a thick cloak and layers of veils, for which she was now grateful. She wore them like armor to hide her face from the curious stares of Deslucido’s soldiers.

Neither Damian nor his son accompanied the funeral cortege, and Taniquel, somewhat paradoxically, found in their absence a greater respect and dignity than any token appearance. The stern-looking men in the Ambervale black and white and the silent, gray-shrouded
laranzu
were witness enough. She spotted Gavriel and some of the senior household staff. The older courtiers and ladies could be excused by the hardship of the journey. But of the young lords who had been Padrik’s closest companions, his
bredin
, of the officers who had fought under him, she saw none. It was cruel of her to not have taken Piadora, to give the child a focus for her grief.

By the time they reached the hill where, surrounded by immense cragged cedars, the Acosta lords from time out of mind lay in unmarked graves, the sky had turned from white to scudded gray.

The sky itself weeps,
she thought, and decided she was being maudlin. Padrik had been good-tempered and dutiful, but he had hardly been a king to sway the heavens to grief at his passing. No, if the threatened rain were a sign of celestial sadness, it must be for the fate of Acosta itself.

At the open gravesite, a white cloth completely covered the body. Taniquel was seized by the impulse to tear the thing aside, to make sure it really was Padrik under there. To make sure he really was dead. In that moment, the battle seemed so distant, the losses so unreal.

One by one, the mourners began to speak. Gavriel, as senior counselor, told a story from Padrik’s boyhood, from just before Taniquel had come to Acosta. She remembered thinking that Padrik was not as handsome as her Hastur cousins and that he was more than a bit spoiled, being the only son of an only son. She had deliberately tripped him and blackened his eye, only to be chased three times around the courtyard with a horsewhip. In an attempt at retaliation, she’d filled his bed with frogs, which he thought truly wonderful, and after that they’d gotten along tolerably well.

Her smile faded as one story followed the other, each one about some long-ago incident, some quirk of Padrik’s humor, some generous gift. Nowhere was there mention of his kingship, of his death. People mourned in different ways, but even when the old King had died, unheroically in his bed, there had been some recognition of what he had been. Padrik had not been a great king, not yet, but he had tried his best. He had outgrown his boyhood bullying and taken on a man’s duty. In another time, the land would have prospered under his rule. Was there no one here willing to say so? Was he to be remembered only for a few charming pranks?

In Acosta tradition, women stayed silent at burials. But Taniquel was Hastur, of higher rank, and Hastur women
did
speak. In a pause, she stepped forward and swept back the veils, baring her face. Drops stung her cheeks.

“I saw him fall.” Her voice sounded reedy to her own ears. “He came racing back from the border when we were under attack, little knowing he rode into a trap. He died at the gates, defending us, a true king to the last.”

“Vai domna!”
Rosalys whispered desperately.

Taniquel paused, taking in the hunched shoulders, the lowered heads, the furtive glances toward the Ambervale soldiers. Not one man would meet her eyes, not even Gavriel. Their fear shivered through her. Not just of what might happen if they were seen to be in agreement with her, but for her own safety.

She had spoken as she always had, saying what she felt to be right, owing nothing except to her own conscience. In all her life, as pampered Hastur daughter, as noble foster-ling, as adored young Queen, she had seen others suffer the consequences of imprudent speech. Until now, she had not given a thought to what might happen to her.

“Perhaps,” she stammered, “it is better to remember him in happier times.”

It was raining full downpour by the time the funeral cortege returned to the castle. Taniquel tried to walk closer to Gavriel, to exchange a word or two with him, but he slid away from her with a courtier’s consummate skill. The rebuff stung until she realized that her actions would only put him at risk. His future, his very life depended upon the favor of the new king. He could not afford to be seen speaking privately with her, even if she had not made such a provocative speech. She must be more tired and more muddled with grief than she realized, to even attempt it.

Taniquel was stumbling in earnest as she made her way up the stairs to her tower room. She was locked in once again, an armed guard at her door. Docilely, she allowed her ladies to strip her soaked garments and coax her into a bath. The scent of rose petals and dried citron peel sprinkled on the steaming water, once a source of sensual delight, now sickened her.

That night, she sat up into the small hours, watching the flames cast dancing shadows on the back of the fireplace. Rain lashed fitfully against the thick glass windows.

Word came the next day from Damian that he had set the date for the wedding and coronation within the tenday. He desired her to join him for dinner. Taniquel snapped at the officer messenger that she was still in mourning and would not see him.

That evening, Taniquel plucked at her
rryl
as she mentally reviewed her situation. She could not hope for sanctuary at any of the smaller neighbors. Verdanta had already fallen to Deslucido, and the others stood no greater chance. Her only hope was to make for Thendara and her Hastur relatives. The journey would be long and difficult, especially at first, when she dared not stop to hunt or buy food. She would have to stockpile trail supplies, take a bow from the armory and a good horse—

She looked up from the
rryl
on her lap at the sound of a man’s laughing voice in the outer hall. She laid the instrument on the low, tapestried footstool. Verella, who had been accompanying her on guitar, got to her feet.

“Ah, there you are.” Belisar stood in the doorway, a smile hovering over his lips.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have come to escort you to dinner, and make sure that this time you are properly dressed.” His eyes flickered from her face, now flushing despite her best efforts, slowly downward, pausing over breasts and hips. “No old rags this time.”

He turned, dismissing her ladies with a few words. Before she could protest, she was alone with him, her bedroom only a short distance away. Clearly, he meant her to understand that while she might be locked in her room, he could enter where and when it pleased him.

“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he said. His words were pleasant, his voice medium in pitch and inflected to mean that he had plenty of women falling over themselves for his attention.

“I do not fear you,
Va’Altezu,
” she said, knowing it was not quite the truth. Until that moment, she had feared him only so far as he was his father’s son.

“Highness?” He moved toward her in a fluid stride. “Is that how you address your promised husband? The customs of Acosta must be strange indeed. Come,” he held out his arms, “give us a kiss.”