Allegiance (8 page)

“I promise,” I said, allowing his sentence to remain unfinished. He again fell back on the sofa, and I stepped into my bedroom, for once having affectionate feelings toward my husband.

 

Three weeks remained until we would host the celebration for Miranna's birthday, and during that time our lives fell into something of a pattern. When I awoke, I would breakfast in my quarters, proceed to the Royal Chapel for morning prayer and meet with the household staff in my drawing room. When necessary, I would also meet with the palace scribes to arrange for letters, invitations or announcements to be written and dispatched. In the afternoons, I would meet with visitors or host a small palace function, such as a tea party, then do as I wished—go shopping, walk in the garden, read, work on my embroidery or spend time
with my sister or mother. I would share the evening meal with my family, my father having finally regained pride enough to sit at the same table with me, although Steldor was always too busy to join us, a fact my parents found baffling. Apparently during my father's reign, the King had never been so consistently occupied. Whether this was a sign that Steldor was inventing excuses to avoid me or that my thickly built father had simply been more devoted to the consumption of food, I could not be certain. I would retire shortly thereafter, to begin the same routine with the rising of the sun.

I knew little of Steldor's daily activities, except that he kept exceedingly irregular hours. He sometimes came to our rooms in midevening to change clothes, only to leave again without a word, never returning before I went to bed and yet already departed when I rose in the morning. At other times, he would not return at all at the close of day, and I would instead hear him enter to change clothes at sunrise, then immediately depart to undertake his duties, as if neglecting to sleep for nights on end were the most natural thing in the world. I saw little of him, and we spoke fleetingly at best when our paths did cross.

Despite our minimal contact, his testiness toward me had noticeably increased since his tender response to my apology—it had begun to seem that, for every nice or sensitive action Steldor took toward me, he felt the need to compensate with a turn for the worse. Needless to say, such fickle behavior did not increase my desire for his company, and he likewise did not, for the time being, seem to yearn for mine. I wondered if he was this variable in temperament with everyone or if he reserved it for me.

Just a few days before Miranna's birthday, I visited my favorite retreat, the garden that extended from the rear of the
palace to the northern section of the walled city. At this time of year, the flowers filled the air with a rich fragrance, while the elm, oak, chestnut and mulberry trees offered cooling shade. I walked along one of the footpaths that divided the garden into four sections, listening to the chirping of the birds and letting my mind wander. I stopped to examine one of the four double-tiered marble fountains, its splashing water sparkling in the sunlight, almost hypnotizing in its sound and motion. I became lost in thought, oblivious to my surroundings, until a voice pulled me from my reverie.

“There you are!” Miranna cried, springing down the garden path toward me, looking cheerful. When she reached me, she took my arm and pulled me toward the palace, speaking so quickly that it took all my concentration to understand her.

“I've been searching everywhere for you, Alera! I just spoke to Father, and he hinted that he's going to make an announcement at my birthday dinner. I hardly dare hope, but I think I know what it will be, in which case this is one birthday I'll never forget!”

I didn't bother trying to persuade her to confide her suspicions, for she would tell me if she wanted me to know. Given her enthusiasm, however, it was easy to guess it involved Lord Temerson, the shy young man in whom she had been interested for almost a year.

She led me all the way to her quarters, rambling about the need to choose the perfect gown, how her hair had to be styled impeccably and how she needed to decide on both of these aspects before a tiara could even be considered. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes danced while she recounted her worries to me. I was amused as she flew about her bedroom, her strawberry blond curls bouncing every which way. She was probably the only person in the
entire kingdom who ever thought she could look anything short of beautiful.

After we had sorted through her wardrobe three times, I managed to convince her one of her newest gowns would be most fitting, and it wasn't by chance that the dress I picked went well with only one of her tiaras. The decision about hairstyle would have to wait, as Ryla, the personal maid I had recently hired for her, would be assisting with that aspect of her preparations.

Though Miranna continued to waver over her choices, she was more satisfied than she had been, and we moved into her parlor, where I sat upon her sofa while she settled into an adjacent armchair.

“I don't know how I'll make it until the party,” she said, unable to sit still and twirling a strand of hair around her fingers with such earnestness that I feared for her scalp. “I haven't seen Temerson in five weeks! Can you believe it? It feels like five years!”

“The Military Academy has been keeping him busy then?” I asked, though I knew that was the impediment. The school year ran from the beginning of November through the end of June, and the only reason Miranna had been able to see Temerson five weeks previously was because of my wedding. It was odd to think that the wedding might have been Miranna's had I foregone my claim to the throne and refused to marry Steldor, and it was heartbreaking to imagine the effect it would have had on Temerson. He would have had to stand by while the woman of his dreams became the wife of a man who had always outranked, intimidated and eclipsed him, and whom he undoubtedly viewed as more deserving of her companionship than was he.

I wondered if Narian, wherever he was, knew that I had married Steldor. If he did, what must he think of me? I had
given Narian my heart but had then pledged myself to a man he knew me to detest, and from whom he'd assured me I could escape. While Narian had been the one to depart, I believed he had good reason and would return to Hytanica when he could. Why hadn't I waited for him? At the very least, he would be disappointed in me; at worst, he might not want to return, unable to bear my betrayal. In the end, if Narian ever did come back, what he thought of me would not matter. I could never be with him, for my marriage vows would eternally divide us.

Miranna had continued to chat away about her “dearest,” as she now referred to Temerson, and had not noticed that my mind had wandered. I tried to push my bleak thoughts aside, not wanting my frame of mind to affect hers.

“But the thirtieth of June marks the end of the schooling year,” Miranna happily babbled. “Then we'll have the whole summer together!” She stopped playing with her hair, and a touch of anxiety entered her voice. “You do think he'll want to spend it with me, don't you?”

“I have no doubt he'll want to spend every free moment he has with you.”

“You're right, of course,” she agreed, with a blush. “He's hopelessly in love with me.”

“Well,
someone's
hopelessly in love,” I said with a laugh.

She sank back in the armchair, face shining with joy, spinning her fantasies out loud.

“Wouldn't it be wonderful? Marrying Temerson, having a beautiful wedding—as beautiful as yours! And then we'd have children, lots of them, and they'd all be beautiful, too, and look just like him.” She paused, frowning a little. “Except for one. One will look like me. One can look like me, right?”

“Yes, one can look like you.”

“Oh, Alera,” she gushed, leaning toward me. “What will
your
children look like? You're lovely, and with Steldor as their father…”

She trailed off, imagining my future offspring with a dreamy expression, but I went red, knowing that the way things were, it would be a very long time before there would be an heir in the offing.

She caught the change in my expression, and her eyes grew wide, drawing a conclusion I did not expect.

“Alera, are you…are you pregnant?”

“Certainly not!” I blurted, a little too vigorously, revealing how appalled I was at the idea.

Miranna sat up, the tiniest bit startled by my reaction, and I tried to smooth it over with a more acceptable response.

“I'm not pregnant, not…not yet.”

“Something's wrong, Alera. Is he not treating you well?”

“No, nothing like that. Everything's fine, really.” I tried to keep my voice light, although the color in my cheeks was refusing to wane.

“Is this about Narian?” she asked, moving to sit next to me on the sofa, the concern in her eyes making me squirm.

“Steldor's not upset about that anymore,” I said, averting my gaze, for the problem was with me, not my husband. “I just don't think I'm the wife he envisioned.”

“But you
are
the wife he envisioned,” Miranna insisted. She sat in silence for a moment, contemplating me, then her skin flushed to match mine. “You are
acting
as a wife, I mean in every way, are you not?”

I was disconcerted by her boldness, but my lack of denial was answer enough.

“You aren't! Oh, my, you aren't!”

I put a finger to my lips, glancing toward the door, not
wanting that piece of information to hit the palace gossip mill, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Alera, what can you be thinking? It's his right, and it—it's your obligation as a married woman!”

I stared at the rug, extraordinarily uncomfortable, knowing that no reason I could give would justify my refusal.

“And he hasn't…he hasn't
forced
you?”

“No,” I said, my voice trembling as she raised one of my greatest fears. My next words served more to convince myself than to explain his actions. “He loves me. He wants me to be willing, and…he has never raised a hand to me.”

“But he can't just be…” My sister was having difficulty completing any sentence, and our flaming cheeks seemed to be heating up the room. “He can't just…not
ever!
A man has…needs.” I knew from her expression that another shocking idea had come into her head. “What if there's another woman?”

“Mira, hush!” I admonished, praying there were no inquisitive guards or servants in the hall outside. “There isn't another woman, don't be ridiculous! He wouldn't…”

But my declaration was lost as the notion sank in. Would he?

I thought of the unusual hours Steldor kept. There was no denying the possibility; and the only way I could stop him was to let him bed me instead. So those were my choices: to continue to refuse him, sending him into the arms of a mistress and disgracing myself when the inevitable rumors began to circulate; or to let him bed me, to
touch
me and believe that he
owned
me, an idea I found so revolting it made me feel sick.

“Perhaps…perhaps I should go,” I mumbled, mortified by my own situation. We stood, and Miranna clasped my hand.

“Alera, I'll always be here for you, whatever happens. You
know that.” She hesitated, then finished, “But your life is with Steldor now, and that's not going to change. I think he could be a good husband, but you…you have to let him.”

She blushed again, then led me to the door. Feeling drained, I stepped into the corridor to walk back to my quarters, aware that Miranna's eyes were still upon me. I quickened my pace in a false show of composure, and only when I heard the click of the latch behind me did I succumb to the dreariness that made my heart and limbs heavy. I continued down the hallway, past the library, with my eyes downcast, not wanting to talk to anyone. So immersed was I in my misery that I recoiled at the sound of a male voice emanating from just a few paces in front of me.

“I know feet are fascinating, Alera, but it's much more sensible to pay attention to where you're going.”

Steldor stood outside the door to our quarters wearing a cocky and irritating grin, and for the thousandth time that day, I felt myself turning crimson. I stared at him, struggling for a witty rejoinder but unable to produce one.

“Did you want something, my lord?” I finally asked, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace.

“I simply wanted to see my beautiful wife,” he said, countenance still smug, although his eyes had softened and I suspected the compliment was sincere. “Your sister's party is in three days, and I took the liberty of having a gown made for you for the occasion. You'll wear it with your gold-and-pearl tiara, and your hair down, as you know I prefer it that way. The seamstress will bring it tonight for the final fitting. Obviously you need to be here.”

I gaped at him, stunned that he would have commissioned a gown for me without even consulting me. Had he considered that I might already have something in mind to wear? No. Had he sought my opinion on the appearance of
the garment? No. I could feel my ire growing, but before I could reprove him, he brushed past me, continuing down the corridor without a hitch in his stride.

When the seamstress came to my bedroom that evening, the gown she carried with her was like none I'd ever before seen. I had always worn the finest fabrics and most stylish designs that money could provide, but never had I felt as rich and lovely as when I donned the garment for which my husband had made special arrangements.

I guessed from the way the woman nervously drummed the tips of her fingers together that Steldor had personally guided the gown's creation, which meant that his taste was extraordinary. He would have specified the ivory silk of the skirt and bodice, the gold trim and the sleeves that were tight unto my elbows before draping like beautiful bells over my wrists. The fabric barely graced my shoulders, settling almost scandalously low across my bosom. But instead of being improper, it achieved a look that was daring and new, yet quite elegant. It was an ideal fit, gently skimming the curves of my body, then flaring out to sweep the floor. The only thing it lacked was a necklace. When I mentioned this to Sahdienne, she rushed into the parlor to retrieve a box that contained a distinctive gold chain that drew about the hollow of my throat, and from which short strings of pearls hung at intervals over my collarbone.