Trusted (12 page)

But she felt she had a good idea of what it would take to drive the simpering idiot away. She was fragile…sensitive. It would be all too easy to damage her ego, damage her trust of the king.

And that was exactly what she must do.

Perhaps, she thought, she would show her face in court tomorrow after all.

Sarea laughed as she entered her father’s house the next day after a taking a walk after breaking fast with her brother Dakon. Dakon was all excited about going at swords with Jesso that day before midday’s meal. He was positive he would win and then be the king’s champion at the end of harvest games next shona. There were nine days in a shona so the games were still a ways off, but Dakon was as excited as if they were happening tomorrow.

“Remember, you have to beat him first,” Sarea said, trying to temper her brother as she entered the vestibule of the house.

“I excel at swords. You saw me at the last games! No one was able to gain a hit on me!”

“You exaggerate. I’m certain I saw you take a hit or two.”

“Regardless,” he brother glossed over, “I won every match.”

“Winning against young men your own age who have equal experience is one thing. Winning against one of the Trusted, a warrior as skilled as Jesso is, is something else entirely.”

“He’s old. He has ten yana on me.”

“Ten yana of experience,” she pointed out.

“Damn it, Sarea, you could at least support me in this! I need to prove myself! Others are saying I am only in the running for Trusted because of the king’s eye for you!”

Sarea grew serious and frowned. “That’s not true. You wouldn’t be considered for Trusted if you didn’t have the merit for it.”

“That’s not what others think,” he said sullenly.

“Well, then, I wish you all of the luck I can muster,” she said, reaching out to hug her brother. He was tense against her at first, but then relented and hugged her back.

“I will win this. Then everyone will see I am worthy of being chosen for Trusted.”

“I know they will,” she said.

“Sarea! Sarea come quick!”

Sarea looked around as Isobol came flying into the vestibule.

“They arrived just after you left! You must come see!”

Isobol grabbed her hand and jerked her away from her brother’s embrace. Sarea stumbled after her friend.

“Isobol really!” she cried. “What could possibly be so exciting?”

“You must see!” Isobol said, dragging her up the stairs.

“Very well, but must you rip my arm from its moorings in the process?” Sarea demanded of her friend.

“I’m sorry. But look!”

Isobol dragged Sarea into the upstairs sitting room where the women did their sewing and embroidery in the afternoon sunlight. There, standing in the middle of the room were two women she didn’t recognize and one man that she did.

Hectore.

Sarea felt her heart clench in her chest. What was he doing here?

That was when she saw everything that was strewn about the room.

Dresses. Beautiful day dresses, evening dresses and ball gowns were covering just about every surface…tables, chairs, sofas…and then all around Hectore were bolts of silk in every color imaginable. Around one of the women was two trunks full of things like shoes, reticules and caps.

“Don’t you see? It’s all for you! Us. Both of us. But you know it’s really for you.”

“But…” She turned to her mother who was standing in the room looking like she too was going to burst from excitement. “Can we afford this?”

“We don’t have to pay for this! It’s a gift…from the king!” she said.

“You’re to pick any dresses you like, and choose from the silks and designs for a ball gown for the harvest masquerade. So am I! Have you ever seen such beautiful things? They are all the height of fashion! Look,” Isobol said, pulling her toward Hectore. She poked the man and he stopped staring at Sarea and produced a bolt of fabric, unrolling it so Isobel could feel it and put it in Sarea’s hands. “It’s cavassa silk! The finest silk there is. Just feel it! Have you ever felt anything so luxurious?”

“But…we can’t possibly accept this!” Sarea cried.

“You have no choice but to accept this,” her mother said briskly. “To refuse would be an insult to the king. Look, he has written a note for you.”

He mother handed her the note which, although it had her name on it, had the seal already broken. Clearly her mother had read it first.

Sarea,

Since I ruined your beautiful silk dress, it seems only fair that I replace it. Accept the rest as my gift to you and to Isobol. And do not refuse, as I know you will be inclined to do. It would give me great pleasure to see you in these beautiful things…although, none of them could surpass the beauty of she who wears them.

Garrick

Sarea clutched the note and the fabric still in her opposite hand, confused as to what to do. It was so generous a gift. She had never received anything even remotely like it in all of her life.

“I guess…I guess I cannot refuse,” she said, knowing it would break Isobol’s heart as well if she did.

Isobol squealed with delight, leaping in to hug Sarea tightly.

“But we shall be reasonable,” Sarea said sternly. “Only a few day dresses, two evening gowns apiece and one ball gown for the masque.”

Isobol didn’t seem the least bit affected by the limitations. Why should she be? Even with those frugal choices they would literally be doubling their wardrobes.

“Come, look at the ball gowns. You simply have to choose the fashion and choose the silk and it will be made up from scratch for you. Look, this one laces in the back instead of the front. It’s the latest style.”

Isobol took her to one dress after another. The day dresses were ready made, so they could put them on right then, have them quickly tailored on the spot, having them ready to wear within minutes. All were made from the finest silk or sura cotton. Hectore showed her bolt after bolt of colored silks and satins, a frothy fabric called difa, and more cotton. The difa was a silk that was lighter than air and with its beautiful robin’s egg blue color, she was drawn to it again and again. Eventually she gave in to its allure and chose it for her ball gown for the masque. The gown itself she chose one of the ones that laced in the back, leaving a smooth bodice in the front and an accentuation of her breasts with its almost too daring scoop neckline. It had hundreds or clear crystals sewn into the fabric making the dress sparkle. When done in the difa it promised to make her look like a floating, sparkling cloud.

Isobol chose a vibrant red, a scandalous color to be sure, and a gown with an equally scandalous neckline. The girls then moved to the shoe vendor where they chose shoes, purses and combs and ribbons for their hair. The vendor also had a selection of masks.

“The selection is for this young lady,” the vendor said, indicating Isobol. “The king wishes you to wear this mask, to compliment his own.”

The vendor handed Sarea a beautiful gold mask with delicate lace around the eyes and rays of golden pearls dangling or radiating from every edge.

“It is the sun,” the vendor said.

It was very obvious how the mask could be interpreted as being the sun.

“It is the only one of its kind. No one else will be wearing its like,” the vendor assured her.

“Thank you. It’s lovely. But what is the king’s mask?”

“The moon of course. For what chases the sun, he said.”

Sarea couldn’t help but smile at that.

Isobol chose a mask of puffs of white meant to be a cloud, saying it was only fitting, for the clouds are all best friends with the sun.

They spent the rest of the morning being fitted into their day dresses and measured for their ball gowns. Hectore left after the fabrics were chosen and Sarea sighed with relief. The man had hardly said a word, but his presence had made her uncomfortable. A fact she shared with Isobol once her mother had left the room.

“You needn’t worry about Hectore any more,” Isobol said. “Even if nothing ever comes of the king’s courtship, Hectore will never have the means or position to win you now. Your parents will not settle for less than a great lord of one of the high houses. But,” she added knowingly, “I don’t think you need to worry about any of that any more. The king is clearly smitten with you.”

“Oh, I would not say smitten,” Sarea said with a shy smile. “He is merely…he clearly just finds me interesting.”

Isobol hooted with laughter. “Fool yourself if you must, but no woman has ever earned such proper attentions from the king before. Not even the queen!”

“Hush! I do wish you wouldn’t jump to all manner of conclusions or speculations like a frog jumping lily pads!”

“Very well,” Isobol said gently, squeezing her friend’s hand. “I will refrain from pointing out the obvious.”

“Oh! You are incorrigible!” Sarea laughed, giving her friend a little shove. “Come. I promised Dakon we would watch him go to swords with Jesso and it is nearly time. In fact, if we don’t hurry we will be late!”

Chapter Eleven

Dakon was stretching on the edge of the practice arena when Sarea and Isobol arrived. Sarea was relieved they had not missed the beginning of the contest. She feared it was going to be over with all too quickly. But her brother was determined, so she would watch in support of him.

“Whom do you favor?” A deep, rich voice purred into her ear from behind. She felt his body come up almost flush to the back of hers, definitely much too close for propriety. But she could not complain. She loved the feel of his strength surrounding her as his hand skimmed her belly and pulled her back into him.

“My brother of course,” she said breathlessly.

“And whom do you think is going to win?” he asked, knowing there was a difference.

She sighed. “Jesso. He has the upper hand in experience and skill.”

“Your brother may yet surprise. He has great determination on his side.”

“And whom do you think will win?”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm in her ear.

“Jesso is going to school the boy.”

She sighed again. “He will be simply impossible to live with after this. He feels he has something to prove. He feels there are those who think he is only being considered for Trusted because of your pursuit of me.”

“Your brother is like you in that he cares far too much what others think of him.”

“I believe I have gotten better about that,” she said.

“Indeed you have. Quite a bit better. And I have behaved myself quite well, I think.”

“Most of the time,” she said with a sly smile. “I believe I have come to know every shadowed corner of this castle these past two shona, for you have taken to pulling me aside into them whenever you can manage.”

“Do not fault me for that. It is your fault for being too tempting to resist.” He purred, a low rumbling sound she felt vibrating into his chest. She glanced at Isobol, who was standing next to her, wondering if her friend could hear the sound.

“I shall endeavor to be less so,” she said with a smile.

“Impossible,” he said. “Unless you were to morph into someone else, it is impossible.”

“Well, there is always my truform. Perhaps then you will not like me.”

He sucked in a breath and she realized belatedly what she had done by suggesting he might see her in truform. It was akin to suggesting he would see her naked.

“I but live for the day,” he said hotly.

Sarea felt the heat of pure awareness rushing all over her skin. Her nipples tightened and felt highly sensitized against the cotton of her day dress. It made her think of things she should not be thinking of around him. But she seemed to be doing it more and more of late. Things like…what would his mouth feel like on other parts of her body? His kisses were so torrid. What would it be like to have that hungry mouth sliding all over her skin.

Her breath began to come in soft little pants and he pulled her even tighter back against him.

“Oh, to be in your mind right now,” he breathed against her ear. “What would I find, innocent little lamb? Are your thoughts pure…or are they like mine? Hot and needy.”

She didn’t trust herself to answer. She couldn’t lie to him and she dare not encourage him with the truth. Not that she didn’t want to encourage him. Parts of her craved it more than anything, craved to tell him everything she was thinking. To throw herself and all caution to the wind. To open herself to hearing his every carnal thought.

But…she was too afraid. Of what exactly she didn’t know. The unknown? Of being seen as less in his eyes? If she gave in to him, would he then lose all interest? Was this all just a game to him? One he would one day tire of playing? How was she to know the truth?

“Look, the contest is about to begin,” Isobol said excitedly, breaking the spell that had been woven between them. Sarea leaned forward, hoping to put a little space between herself and the king. But he stayed ever so close behind her.

Jesso walked into the ring cold, not bothering to stretch or warm up as Dakon was doing. All of the onlookers were raised above the arena, looking down on them from a raised platform that ringed the training ground. Usually soldiers or trainees of the Order would use this platform to watch the instructions of the captains, to better see the skills they displayed. But now the stands were full of the entire court, news of the contest having spread through the court like wildfire.

Jesso tapped his sword on the ground in invitation.

“Come on, boy. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, a grin playing over his handsome mouth.

Dakon hesitated. It was only brief but his sister took note of it. Dakon was finally showing sense, that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to be taking on the greatest swordsman in the kingdom. But in the end he moved forward and raised his guard.

But Jesso didn’t attack. He merely waited.

“Well? Come on then. I’m right here. Look I’ll even lower my sword,” Jesso taunted him, lowering the tip of his blade to the ground.

Dakon lunged forward, slamming his sword into Jesso’s, snapping the blade out of the other man’s hand. The crowd gasped to see Jesso so easily disarmed. Dakon pressed his advantage and struck Jesso in the chest with the flat of his blade.

One point to Dakon.

Jesso laughed, held out his empty hands and said, “Good hit. Care for another?”

Dakon frowned and pulled back. But only for a moment. He lunged forward again and Jesso dodged him. But Dakon persisted and struck a second blow to Jesso’s back. The contest was best out of seven. At this rate, Dakon would have his four hits in minutes.

Jesso laughed again, but still did not retrieve his sword. Dakon was getting frustrated.

“Why won’t you fight?” he demanded of Jesso. “Pick up your sword!”

“Don’t worry about me, boy. Worry about getting your hits.”

“But it won’t be fair if you don’t fight!”

“Do you want to be the king’s champion or don’t you? What does it matter how you get it?” Jesso asked.

Dakon surged forward. Jesso dodged left, feinted right, dipped under Dakon’s sword and..

Smack! Dakon’s sword hit Jesso’s back. Now Jesso was a good distance from his sword and all it would take is one more hit and he would have won the contest. Jesso looked up at the king.

“Shall I begin, my king?” he asked.

“Please do,” the king said, humor in his voice.

Jesso’s entire attitude changed, his stance shifting, his gaze narrowing. Dakon stood between him and his sword.

“You can’t have it now. I’m one hit away!” Dakon said.

“We’ll see,” Jesso said.

Dakon pressed his advantage. Swinging out, looking for a hit. Jesso dodged the swing with lightning fast reflexes, dropped into a roll and rolled under Dakon’s guard. He kicked out, sweeping the boy’s legs out from under him and sending him onto his back. Jesso rolled again and when he stood up, his sword was in his hand.

The crowd applauded as Dakon struggled to his feet. His back was to Jesso, who simply stepped forward and touched the tip of his sword to Dakon’s shoulder.

One point to Jesso.

Dakon stood up and struck the blade away from his body. The two men traded sword clashes, came apart, circled, then came together again. Jesso dipped under Dakon’s guard again and smacked the flat of his blade hard across Dakon's backside. The crowd erupted into laughter.

Sarea could tell her brother was frustrated by the ease of Jesso’s points. He was embarrassed to be struck in such a way. It made him act rashly and even Sarea could tell he was leaving himself open. The sound of the smack of Jesso’s blade reverberated into the arena.

Three points to Jesso. Now the men were tied. This last point would decide the victor. Jesso dropped the tip of his sword and Dakon came in hard, his temper evident in his swings. The metal struck hard, the ring of it filling the air. Dakon pressed and Jesso guarded. Dakon had both hands on his sword and Jesso had only one.

“He’s toying with him,” Sarea whispered.

“Mmhmm,” the king confirmed.

“Why?”

“He’s teaching him a lesson.”

One that even she saw her brother needed to learn.

“Let’s make this interesting,” Jesso said as he parried another blow from Dakon. “How about the loser has to polish all or the silver in the castle, and the winner gets to watch? Or, how about the loser has to play manservant to the winner for a misra.”

“I’ll take the latter,” Dakon said before attacking Jesso in a flurry of blade movements. Jesso blocked his blade just as it was about to strike him in the side.

“The boy’s not without skill,” the king said. “But he is without humility.”

“So Jesso has to humiliate him in order to get him to learn?” Sarea asked defensively. “Why?”

“You know your brother best. Tell me how else we can get him to learn his place?”

Sarea knew there was no other way. Her brother was too stubborn. Too arrogant. He was not a bad person, just an overly proud one.

“I don’t want to watch this,” she said.

“It’s almost over,” the king said gently.

And as soon as he said it, Jesso went on the offensive at last, striking against Dakon's blade so hard the younger man grunted with each impact. Jesso whipped his blade under, around and with a flick of his wrist sent Dakon’s blade flying out of his hand. Then Jesso stepped in and smacked Dakon on the arm then across the face with the flat of his blade.

“My point…has been made,” Jesso said. He stepped in close to Dakon, turned the hilt of his blade toward Dakon and said, “Now polish my sword, boy.”

Dakon sullenly took the blade from the other man. Jesso turned up his face to the king and said, “Am I still your champion, my king?”

“Always, Jesso. Now if you’re done playing, it’s time for midday’s meal.”

Jesso grinned and turning to Dakon said, “You can be my wine bearer.”

The court moved toward the castle as a whole and the king took Sarea’s hand in his.

“Are you all right?” he asked kindly.

“I just hate to see him so beaten.”

“He’ll be all right.”

“I know. But a whole misra as Jesso’s servant? And I can tell he isn’t going to go easy on him.”

“No. He isn’t. But your brother chose his own path. Allow him to live with the consequences of his actions.”

“I will,” she said.

They moved inside and sat at the table. As usual Isobol sat to the king's immediate right and Sarea sat next to her. Jesso sat to her right and Dakon stood behind them, a pitcher of wine in his hands. He had to fill Jesso’s cup every time he tapped his glass and Sarea could feel the frustration radiating off of him every time he leaned over her shoulder to do so.

It was because of this that Sarea was looking to the right. When she saw Gersa, who was sitting to Jesso’s right, she sucked in her breath. It was clear that someone had abused the girl. She had a fat lip and a bruise had formed near her mouth. The usually arrogant girl was much subdued, eating quietly.

After the meal Sarea moved away from the king for a moment and approached Gersa cautiously.

“What do you want?” the girl asked sullenly.

“Who has done this to you?” she asked directly.

“What do you care? It’s clear you hate me,” she said.

“I don’t hate you. Rather I think it is you who hold ill will toward me. But be that as it may, no one deserves to be beaten.”

“Perhaps then you should think twice about who you spend your time with,” Gersa said.

“Are you…are you implying that the
king
has done this to you?”

“I said something unkind about you and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor.” Gersa lowered her voice and leaned in, her eyes suddenly wide an vulnerable. “You shouldn’t be talking to me. If he discovers I’ve told you he will do even worse next time.”

Sarea was in shock. She had never been a friend to Gersa; indeed, Gersa had shown her nothing but animosity. But why would she dare accuse the king of something if it weren’t true? Surely to tell a lie of that magnitude would get her banished from court or worse. She had to know there would be consequences if she were caught in such a lie.

But someone had treated this girl ill. She might have been able to fake a fat lip, but the bruises around her throat were real enough.

But who would dare lay their hands on the highest ranking female in court? It made no sense that her gentle king would display such temper. But…she knew he was gentle with her but capable of much hardness and ferocity when it came to other things. He was a man to be reckoned with when he was displeased about something.

But he was not an irrational man. Hadn’t he said the last thing he wanted to do was provoke Lord Tyron? If this wasn’t a provocative action, then she didn’t know what was. And why wasn’t the girl’s father doing anything about it? Surely she had told him it was the king who had abused her.

“Why have you not told your father? How have you explained this to him?”

“The king said he would kill my father and be done with him if I told him. If I told my father he would challenge the king to a truform duel and I know my father would lose. The king is much stronger than my father is. I love my father and do not wish to see him hurt. So…I told my father it was the kitchen boy. That he tried to rape me. The boy has been punished cruelly for it, but I knew not what else to do.”