Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (60 page)

“I prefer to walk, Phineas.” She drew her cloak tighter against the damp chill that hung like a mist in the air. “It’s hard enough being confined upon a riverboat much of the day without having to be carried here and there once we make camp. I long for any chance to use my legs.”

“You will surely soil your slippers and the hem of your gown, fair one,” warned the eunuch, his voice effeminately high and nasal. He signaled for the four bearers supporting the drapery-shrouded litter to follow as he hastened to catch up with her. “It grows dark and the ground is muddy from recent rains…you could slip and fall, perhaps injure yourself. Certainly you would not wish that to happen only a fortnight from your wedding day.”

“Since when have you or your mistress ever been concerned about my welfare?” Zora muttered, pretending not to hear him. And why the sudden invitation to join Hermione in her tent? Zora could count on one hand the number of times she and her half sister had exchanged words since they left Tmutorokan weeks ago, which was no different than the icy distance they had maintained in the
terem
, the women’s quarters of their father Prince Mstislav’s palace.

Skirting murky puddles and quagmires of mud, Zora proceeded undaunted through the torchlit maze of striped tents toward the largest one erected at the very heart of camp.

Her own tent was always pitched on the edge, another not so subtle jab on Hermione’s part to ensure that Zora never forgot her place as a bastard daughter. But Zora didn’t mind. She liked being apart from the hubbub created by countless slaves, eunuchs, and guards who made up the bulk of this ponderous caravan. The number of retainers required by two Rus princesses, several concubines, and the wives and children of Prince Mstislav’s highest officials was astonishing.

Yet she did mind abandoning the deliciously fragrant supper of spit-roasted pheasant her cook had prepared for her. Zora’s stomach was growling irritably.

She had been tempted to refuse the unexpected invitation, but why incite Hermione’s anger? Soon they would be separated. In a little less than a week they would arrive at Chernigov, their father’s new capital city, and within another week Zora would marry and become the mistress of her own household. No longer would she have to endure Hermione’s imperious slights and petty jealousies, for they would rarely see each other except for court functions. That arrangement would suit Zora perfectly.

“Allow me to announce your arrival, beauteous one,” Phineas insisted, overtaking her just as she reached the guarded entrance to Hermione’s tent.

Noting his labored breathing and mud-splattered tunic, Zora felt a small ripple of satisfaction. She had always disliked this eunuch’s smooth and haughty ways, which so mirrored those of his mistress. It pleased her to have upset his composure, even a little.

“If you wish.”

As the guards pulled aside the flaps, Zora followed Phineas through a small antechamber and then into the sumptuous interior, which was flooded with golden light from shining copper lanterns and wax candles as thick as a man’s arm.

“My mistress, Princess Zora has come.”

“Thank you, Phineas. You may leave us.”

The eunuch bowed deeply and retired from the tent, leaving Zora standing alone just inside the entrance. Her gaze settled upon the lovely young woman ensconced upon a cushioned divan, dressed in amber silk, her smooth dark hair pulled back and coiled on either side of her head in the Byzantine fashion, the tight spirals interlaced with shimmering strands of pearls. Zora’s own thick hair had never accepted such a style and she fingered a long, unruly strand as she waited.

“How gracious of you to accept my invitation, dear sister,” said Hermione in a silky yet cordial tone. She gracefully waved a marble white hand at another divan placed opposite from her own. “Please. Come and sit.”

Lifting her chin, Zora coolly approached. Her life would have been truly miserable at the hands of this intimidating half-Greek princess if their father had not accepted Zora into his family. Bastards without paternal acknowledgment counted for little in Rus. But Prince Mstislav’s enduring favor and fatherly affection had given her courage, and instead of growing into womanhood cowed and meek, she carried herself with pride and met any insult with determined defiance.

“Have you eaten?” Hermione inquired as Zora took the seat offered to her.

“I have supper waiting for me at my tent,” she replied, giving her half sister a pointed hint that she did not intend to linger.

“Oh, but you must be hungry.” Hermione clapped her hands before Zora could object, and a moment later female slaves appeared from a side entrance bearing trays laden with food and drink. “I haven’t eaten either,” she said as the ivory-inlaid table between them was quickly set with plates of chased silver, savory dishes were uncovered, and enameled goblets filled with vermilion wine. “Join me.”

Annoyed by her sister’s presumption, Zora reluctantly accepted a brimming goblet from a slave and watched as Hermione dipped her silver spoon into a steaming lamb stew laced with leeks and tiny onions. Stubbornly resisting her gnawing hunger, Zora took a healthy sip of wine to ease the hollow pangs in her stomach.

“Umm, it’s wonderful.” Hermione pushed the bowl of stew toward her. “You must try some.”

“I’d rather wait, thank you,” Zora said firmly, although her mouth watered at the wonderful aroma of fresh-baked honey and poppy seed bread. “Perhaps if you told me why you invited me here, I could return to my tent. It’s been a long day and we have to rise early tomorrow.”

Sighing resignedly, Hermione set down her spoon and regarded Zora with stunning cobalt-blue eyes, their only shared feature other than their like age of seventeen years.

“I suppose I’m to blame for your hostility toward me, my sister, but I hope that after tonight we’ll begin to find more pleasure in each other’s company. I invited you because I never congratulated you upon your betrothal to Lord Ivan. I would like to make amends for that oversight…and my callous mistreatment of you in the past, and present you with a gift.”

Zora blinked, incredulous.

“I know this comes as a surprise, but I’ve been thinking that since you and I will be separated soon by your marriage, it doesn’t seem right that we should part as enemies. We’re starting new lives in Chernigov. Father wouldn’t have summoned us to his new court if he wasn’t certain of his ability to wrest the Rus throne from Grand Prince Yaroslav. So in honor of Father’s approaching victory, I think we should reconcile our, shall we say, differences, and start afresh.”

Thoroughly stunned, Zora stared at her half sister. Did Hermione really believe that years of insults and unkindnesses could be so easily forgiven and forgotten? It had been
Hermione’s
bitter resentment that had first driven the ugly wedge between them.

As the silence lengthened, Hermione arched a slim dark brow. “Have you nothing to say? I hoped my words would have pleased you.”

“Pleased me?” Zora asked, finding her voice at last. “No, I’m merely puzzled. You speak of reconciliation, yet my tent remains on the outskirts of camp almost to the forest—”

“The slave manager’s oversight, I can only suppose through force of habit,” Hermione broke in, dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand. “But it won’t happen again, I promise you. Tomorrow night your tent will be pitched next to mine.” She lifted her goblet in salute. “I drink to your coming marriage, my sister. Receiving news of your betrothal to Lord Ivan must have brought you great joy. He’s handsome, wealthy, a landed boyar, and a member of Father’s senior
druzhina
. Fortune has indeed smiled upon you.”

Although highly skeptical of her half sister’s sincerity, Zora joined in the toast. She was content with Prince Mstislav’s choice for her husband.

True, she didn’t love Ivan—and his arrogant, imperious ways sometimes grated upon her—but she had agreed to the match knowing it would please her father. She could do no less for the honored place he had given her within his household, even though she was born out of Christian wedlock to a Slavic concubine.

Yet it was strange that she would be the first to wed, Zora thought, licking the tangy wine from her lips as she lowered her goblet. Lady Canace, Hermione’s Greek mother, would never have allowed such a thing if she were still alive. After all, Hermione was older by a few months and a trueborn princess. Zora imagined that Prince Mstislav must have someone else in mind for his eldest daughter, most likely some foreign monarch’s son who would befit her status.

“And now for my gift.” Hermione’s eyes were curiously alight as she again clapped her hands. Two slave women hastened to a great carved chest and while one held open the lid, the other withdrew a large oblong bundle wrapped in gray linen.

Despite herself, Zora felt excitement flare as the slave knelt before her and placed the heavy bundle in her lap. She glanced up at Hermione, whose smile seemed fixed upon her face.

“Open it, dear sister.”

Taking a small knife from the table, Zora slit the twine binding the linen and hastily unwrapped her present. Her breath caught as a bolt of iridescent cream silk was revealed, the thin, tissuelike material striated with sparkling threads of gold.

“It—it’s beautiful,” she murmured, astonished that Hermione would give her anything, especially a gift so fine.

“For your wedding gown. Do you remember those Byzantine fabric merchants who visited our camp last week?”

Zora nodded. She draped a glittering length over her arm, the fabric feeling wonderfully cool against her skin.

“I bought the entire bolt for you. I knew the moment I saw it that the color would accent your tawny hair and golden skin to perfection.”

For the first time since Hermione had said she wanted to make amends, Zora dared to believe that she might have meant it. She met her half sister’s gaze, and although it felt strange to do so, she smiled at her, her gratitude heartfelt.

“Thank you, Hermione. I’ll wear it proudly.”

“I know you will.” Hermione took a long sip of wine, then set her goblet upon the table. Delicately dipping her spoon into a silver bowl filled with glistening black salmon roe, she added, “The food grows cold. Dine with me.”

“If you don’t mind, I still wish to retire,” Zora murmured, rewrapping the bolt of silk. Indeed, she did feel tired, her eyelids strangely heavy. “As you said, this has come as a great surprise. I need time to think—”

“I understand,” Hermione interrupted, wiping her full, red mouth with an embroidered napkin. She rose with Zora, calling, “Phineas?”

The eunuch must have been waiting in the antechamber, for he appeared as if in an instant.

“Princess Zora would like to return to her tent. Will you escort her?”

“Of course, mistress, the litter is waiting outside.”

“I’d rather walk.” Zora wondered why her legs felt so sluggish as her taller half sister led Zora to the entrance. She hadn’t drunk much wine, but her weariness seemed to have quickened its effect.

“Walking will not be possible, fair one,” said Phineas. He cast a covert glance over her head at Hermione. “The rain has begun again.”

“Yes, you wouldn’t want that lovely silk to be ruined, Zora, and you do look exhausted. Please take my litter.”

“Very well,” she said, suddenly feeling disinclined to argue. Clasping her gift to her breasts, she turned to Hermione. “Good night…and thank you.”

Hermione’s tight smile did not reach her eyes. “Good night, dearest sister.”

As Zora entered the antechamber, she stumbled, but Phineas caught her arm, preventing her fall.

“I don’t know why I’m so tired,” she said as he helped her into the litter that was drawn right up to the tent.

“The journey from Tmutorokan has been a long and taxing one, Princess,” he said smoothly, closing the heavy curtains to leave her in darkness. “Do not trouble yourself. Rest.”

Zora obliged him by sinking gratefully against the plush cushions, but when the litter was hoisted into the air she was assailed by a wave of nauseating dizziness.

“Phineas?”

Her weak cry went unanswered. Outside she heard the bearers’ sandals squelching in the mud and rain beating upon the litter’s canvas roof, but not a sound from the chief eunuch.

Mother of Christ, what could be wrong with her?
she wondered dazedly. Every pitch and sway of the litter heightened her sense of lightheadedness. Her tongue felt thick and as dry as wool, and try as she might, she could barely open her eyes.

Overwhelmed by a terrible drowning sensation as her body sank deeper into the cushions, Zora could swear that they should have arrived at her tent by now, but the slaves kept on walking. Where were they taking her? Was it possible she had lost track of time and they had not yet reached the camp’s outskirts?

Suddenly the litter pitched to one side as if a slave had tripped and lost his footing, then it felt like the world dropped from beneath her. The conveyance hit the ground with a jarring thud. Through the cold numbness enveloping her body she heard sounds of struggle—and muted screams?—then Phineas’s ragged whisper.

“Grab her and be gone! And I warn you, tell your master Gleb not to forget his sworn agreement. This concubine’s tongue is to be cut out, and she’s not to be sold until you reach Constantinople! My mistress has paid much gold to ensure that her wishes are met. Tell Gleb if they are not, she will gladly spend a thousand times more to have him found and punished.”

Zora moaned in horrified disbelief. She’d been caught in a treacherous web! She gasped as the curtains were torn aside and rough hands wrenched her from the litter. But it was so dark she could not see her assailants’ faces. Nor could she move her limbs to escape them.

“No, please…my wedding gown,” she whimpered almost incoherently, glimpsing the cream silk lying like a bright beacon upon the muddy ground.

In the next instant a dank, fetid cloth was stuffed in her mouth, and limp as a rag, she was flung over a broad shoulder, the wind knocked painfully from her lungs. She felt her captor running, his breathing hard and labored, and when he abruptly stopped, she heard as if from a great distance the rush of water and oars scraping. Then all consciousness receded and pitch-blackness engulfed her.