WINDKEEPER (55 page)

Loud cheering and applause greeted their new mistress, but so did side glances and whispers concerning the reason why she still wore her veil.

Conar saw pity for him and could not bear it. He held his head higher and brought his wife’s fingers to his lips, planting the softest of kisses on her chilled hand.

"You are wondering why the lady is still veiled," he said, his voice carrying, for not a single sound was heard in the courtyard. Every ear was cocked to his words. "It is the custom of her family that only I may see her unveiled this night. She has asked me to abide by that custom and, reluctantly, I have."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her head tilt up to him once more. He ignored her. "If you will be here tomorrow morn, I shall be delighted to present my wife to you," he said through grinding teeth. He felt her stiffen beside him and an imp of malice brought a wicked gleam to his eyes. "She is as anxious as you are for you to see her."

A soft, husky whisper came to him from behind the veil and, with a look of vengeance, he bent his head to her. His face turned red, and he straightened up, squinting his white-hot irritation down at her. He had expected her to balk at the public unveiling, but that didn’t matter. He was her husband now and he would carry her kicking and screaming to these very steps if need be, for when he made a promise to his people, he kept it.

But what she had said to him had not been a chastisement, no denial of what he had told his people, no refusal to be unveiled in public. Instead, she had turned the tables on his vicious, childish prank.

He turned to the crowd, his eyes flashing dangerously. "My lady-wife has reminded me ’tis already morn." He glanced at her. "If you will be here by noon?"—he saw her nod in agreement—"Then we will take off this stupid veil!"

Laughter rang out over the courtyard and behind him as his father tittered nervously and his aunt chuckled. He sent them a damning look and turned around. He felt his Lady-wife tug on his arm and snapped down his head, glowering at her.

"What, now?" he growled, put out with her husky, irritating voice. She tugged again and he lowered his head. "What?" he hissed.

She whispered to him and then nodded toward the far doors leading into the Banqueting Hall.

"She’s got you on a leash, now, Your Grace!" a merry voice called from the crowd.

"She’ll keep him right warm, I reckon!" another said with a chuckle.

"I know I would," some woman said and the crowd roared.

"You sure we should come at all tomorrow, Highness?" one of his Elite asked.

Conar’s people were as used to teasing him as he was to teasing them. His wicked sense of humor and roving eye, his grand good luck with the fairer sex, had made him somewhat of a legend in Serenia, and even beyond Serenia’s borders. It was the customary thing, this teasing, the remarks, the innuendoes; but the remarks tonight both angered and embarrassed Conar. His jaw went tight with fury and his face flamed in humiliation. Not that he cared a whit what the bitchlet at his side felt. The comments about chains and leashes hit too close to his already festering sense of imprisonment. He was about to make an angry retort when the woman at his side tugged sharply on his arm and spoke to him in an anxious, warning voice.

"They love you well, Your Grace. Let them not see how hateful you find this marriage."

Shock went through him at the woman’s perception. He felt her hand lightly squeeze his arm. "I find their comments unwholesome, Madame!" he said in a self-righteous voice.

"It is natural for them to tease you, for you have always encouraged it, Your Grace. Let them have their joy this night. Noon will give them more to jest about, I assure you." Her head dipped and he had to strain to hear the rest of what she said. "Please do not embarrass me this night, I beg you."

He let out a harsh sigh. "I had no intention of embarrassing you, woman."

"I know full well your intent, Your Grace," she replied softly, and with head held high, she let go his arm and limped forward, heedless if he followed or not.

Conar ground his teeth and stepped quickly to her side. He snatched up her hand, placed it on his forearm and covered her fingers with his left hand, anchoring them to his cold flesh. "You will walk with me, Madame!"

Beneath the veil, the lady smiled wickedly. "As you wish, Your Grace."

Weddings were not commonplace in the palace at Boreas. The only other Joining to have been performed there in over thirty years had been that of Conar’s mother and father.

Neither Coron’s nor Dyllon’s Joining had occurred in Serenia, but in their Lady-wives’ homelands since it was unlikely either young Prince would take the throne at the Court of the Wind.

Relatives from both sides of the royal families had assembled in the Great Hall along with visitors from the Principalities of Chale, Ionary, and Virago. A few hardy travelers had made the trek with the Emperor and Empress of Chrystallus and would be returning later that next day without her. Crossing the mountains in wintertime was not a trek many of them cared to make, and the snow had begun to fall heavily about the Great Palace of the Winds as the wedding meal started.

Hardy applause rang out as Conar entered the hall with his new bride. They walked amidst nods of greeting and the occasional wish for a good and long marriage.

Conar’s face was closed and set as he walked past the smiling faces wishing him well. He let go of his wife’s hand as soon as was decently acceptable, pulling his chair out from the table, and seating himself even before she had seated herself. His hand closed about the filled wine goblet and he raised his it to make the traditional toast to his bride.

"My people," he said through clenched teeth, "I present my lady-wife, Princess Anya." He almost choked and had to bring the goblet to his lips to wash down the unpleasant words he had been forced to speak.

Traditionally, the toast should have been made while he stood—a signal for those present to also toast the bride—since they would all be standing until the toast was made. As it was, the onlookers merely gaped at him, unsure of his purpose.

It wasn’t until King Gerren raised his own goblet in a steely grip of anger and shame, that the others followed suit. "Long life and gentle births to Princess Anya!" Gerren saluted.

"To Princess Anya!" the crowd roared.

The voice of the bride’s father rang out. "Long life and many sons to Prince Conar!"

"To Prince Conar!" the crowd agreed.

Conar ignored the warning look his father shot his way as the King seated himself at the head of the main table. The Prince reached behind him and yanked at his wine steward’s pantlet to gain the man’s attention. "Keep it filled," he hissed as he held out his goblet.

His words were an indication to his young brothers, Coron and Dyllon, who sat on the other side of Conar’s new bride, that Conar intended to get rip-roaring drunk.

"Here we go again," Coron sighed.

From his place further down the long table, Legion frowned. Everyone was looking at Conar as he tilted back his freshly filled goblet and drained it, snatching the bottle from the wine steward and demanding another bottle. The older man cast a worried glance to Teal du Mer who sat opposite him.

"Not a good sign," Teal whispered, shaking his head.

"He’s got the very demon in him tonight," Legion agreed.

Conar’s actions did not escape the lady at his side, for behind her silver veil, her eyes took on a deadly sheen of mortification.

The young prince had come from the Temple without his tunic, for tradition had called for his people to be able to see the wedding bracelet upon his arm and he was now shivering with the cold, his flesh having taken on a slightly bluish tinge. So far he had consumed six glasses of chilled wine, and his body temperature was dropping, but he refused to put on the tunic that lay draped across the back of his chair.

He snapped his head around as his bride raised her hand and seemed to be giving a command to someone near the entrance of the Great Hall.

"What are you about?" he snorted.

"Are you not cold, Your Grace?" came the raspy reply.

"Don’t answer a question with a question!" he warned and turned his head, feeling the nausea that had seemed to have disappeared come coursing back to his throat at a gallop. He put up his hand and rubbed his right temple.

"Headache, Conar?" Coron asked, craning his neck around Conar’s new bride.

"If he ain’t got one now, he’ll have one soon!" Dyllon chuckled.

The Prince Regent turned annoyed eyes to his youngest brother and frowned. "I am perfectly fine, you despicable little snot."

Dyllon grinned at Coron. "I can see that, Conar."

"Why don’t you go easy on the wine, big brother," Coron asked.

"Why don’t you mind your own business, you shitty little twerp?" Conar asked sweetly and burped. His grin was malicious and full of challenge.

"Leave him be, Coron," Dyllon advised. "He’s made up his mind to make a fool of himself. Let him."

Coron smiled his apology at the Princess who had turned to him and nodded in agreement to Dyllon’s advice.

Conar jumped as Gezelle laid a brightly wrapped package before him. He glared up at her. "What the hell is that?"

Gezelle could not look at him, nor could she look to the woman at his side. Her face was downcast, her fingers nervous as she twisted them at her waist. "It is a present from your bride, Milord." She didn’t wait for him to give her leave before turning and fleeing, her sobs drifting behind her.

"What the hell’s the matter with you, ’Zelle?" he shouted after her, oblivious to the stares his outburst brought. He swung around to his bride. "What’s wrong with her?"

The answer from the veil was low and soft and filled with contrition. "I made the mistake of greeting her yesterday, Your Grace," came the sad confession. "I fear I have frightened her badly." There was deep apology in the words.

Conar glared at the woman. "You spoke to my servant without my permission? Why?"

"Well, since she is to be my lady’s maid—"

"The hell she will!" Conar exploded so loudly the musicians stopped playing. He heard his father’s snap of anger and glanced down the table to where the King sat.

"I think you’ve had quite enough wine," his father told him, forcing a smile for his guests. "The boy’s nervous." He shrugged at the inquisitive looks and was somewhat mollified by the sight of his son bending close to his new wife’s ear.

"Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Toad." Conar hiccuped in her ear, his sour breath making the woman move away. " ’Zelle is my lady’s maid." He thought about that for a moment and then corrected himself. "She is my lady," he slurred. No, that wasn’t right, either. He looked down his nose at the woman. "She is my maid." He nodded once emphatically. That was right. "She’s a maid."

That wasn’t right, either. He’d made sure of that, but the bitch had no business knowing that piece of information.

"I’m not to make use of her service, Milord?" the lady asked, amused by his rapidly garbled words and comical expression.

"You certainly are not."

"Then who am I to use, Your Grace?"

"How about that bitch who came with you?" He waved his hand. "You two deserve one another."

"Liza will be returning with my parents, Your Grace. She doesn’t like it here."

"Tough shit, eh?" He grinned, happy with that particular news.

"Your Grace, please don’t use that kind of—"

"Tell me something, Toad," he demanded. "Did ’Zelle see you without that stupid piece of shit on your little pointed head?"

There was a long hesitation. "I will not have you call me by that insulting name," she answered with a tightly controlled voice. "I don’t like it and…"

"Get over it. Did Gezelle see you unveiled?"

"Aye, she saw me without my veil."

"Well, no wonder!" he snorted. He blew out his breath in a gush as heads turned toward him. "Who the hell wouldn’t be scared shitless seeing that?"

The Princess’ hand clutched the table edge until the knuckles bled of color. "I did not intend to cause the girl any…"

"You’ll leave Gezelle alone, do you hear me, Toad? She is under my protection and answers only to me! I’ll not have you scaring her witless, is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear."

"It had better be! The girl’s had enough fear in her life. I won’t have you going about frightening her even more." He raked his glare down her veiled face. "You keep that piece of shit on your head and that ugly face of yours covered. Do you hear me?"

"Why you…" his wife began but he waved her away.

"Shut up. Your voice annoys the hell out of me!"

He took up his wine goblet and tried to drink, but there was nothing in the goblet. He turned it upside down and shook it. He was about to reach for the wine steward when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Legion.

"Why don’t you open the present your lady-wife brought to you from her homeland?"

Conar shrugged and tore the gold foil paper from the box and yanked off the lid, shoving aside the fine tissue paper inside.

Legion tried to smile at the Princess, for he could sense her watching him, but his lips felt frozen. He was so embarrassed for his brother, he felt like running away. But at Conar’s "aah" of surprise, he glanced at what his brother was withdrawing from the box and managed to smile.

In his hands, Conar held a tunic of the palest lavender, hand-stitched with silver thread, embroidered with a deep purple silk.

"I hope it is the right size, Your Grace," Conar’s bride told him in her smoky whisper. "I wasn’t sure."

Legion looked at the woman and realized there had been love, recognizable love, in her tone as she had spoken.

"Look at the work involved in that," Coron said to Dyllon.

Dyllon nodded. "It’s better than Conar deserves."

"Conar!" his father called. "Hold it up so everyone can see!"

Conar glanced at his father and then stood, wavering only a little as he brought up the tunic for the scrutiny of the wedding party. He heard the immediate patter of approving hands and sat back down, staring at the tunic in rapt wonder.