Blackveil

Estora nodded. “Thank you.”

Destarion then stepped closer and lowered his voice. “My lady, your presence with him here tonight may provide him comfort. If he reacts, do not be afraid to fulfill his needs. I’ve not given him his soporific this evening. In fact, I’ve given him a slight stimulant of a sort that may make him . . . more responsive. I could not say, however, when or if the stimulant will make him more wakeful.” With that, Destarion bowed and excused himself from her presence.

The Weapon, Ellen, then came to her and said, “I will be posted right outside the door, my lady. If you should need anything at all, just call me.”

“Thank you,” Estora replied. Ellen bowed again and left her. If only, Estora thought, she could follow her out. Instead, the witnesses watched her and her maid waited expectantly. Estora squinted at one of the men in the middle whom she thought might be the priest who conducted the marriage ceremony. The moon priests were celibates, but probably took their opportunity to get an eyeful when they could.

Her maid helped her remove the robe, and then as the rite required, her sleeping gown and underclothing. She might have rushed to get beneath the blankets to conceal her nakedness as a modest young woman should, but she was angry. Angered by Richmont’s threats, angered by this crass tradition. Instead of hiding, she faced them and allowed them all a slow, good look.

“This is what you’re here for, isn’t it?” she asked them. “To see your queen at her most vulnerable? Do you like what you see?”

“My lady, please . . .” Definitely the priest. He glanced away, but not for long.

She had, she decided, nothing to be ashamed of. She knew many men coveted her body. These five must feel very privileged. Would they brag to their friends? Fellow priests? Even embellish what they saw? Let them look. F’ryan had thought her body beautiful, and it made her feel powerful to force them to stare.

It was, however, also very chilly. After she felt they had gotten enough of a look, she climbed up into the bed next to Zachary, her maid helping her arrange the blankets. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, my lady.”

“Thank you, Jaid.”

Jaid curtsied, dimmed the bedside lamp to a low glow, and then left, bearing away Estora’s clothes. Part of the rite was to prevent her access to her clothing so she could not, ostensibly, leave the bedchamber.

Richmont stood and rounded the bed, and brought to her a cup of wine. “Your marriage bed cup,” he said. “Drink up.”

She took it from him with a scowl. Another part of the ritual. Very often the wine was laced with an aphrodisiac or an herb to promote fertility. She supposed Zachary had gotten his ritual wine as medicine. She sighed and drank. If the wine was dosed, it was very subtle. Richmont stood over her until she drained the cup and he took it from her when she finished.

She sank into the mattress and gazed into the dark ceiling overhead. At least with the light so dim, if there was anything for the witnesses to see, they’d be able to make out few of the fine details. In time her body began to feel very relaxed, relaxed and yet aware of every texture against her skin, of how the movement of the sheets sent vibrations to her very nerve ends. Her body thrilled to the sensations and she wondered how it would respond to Zachary’s touch. Yes, the wine had been dosed.

Zachary remained a warm, unmoving presence beside her. She reached out and brushed his arm with her fingertips and that simple contact sent such waves of pleasure flooding through her that she almost cried out. After that, she refrained from touching him. She would not allow herself to get overwrought for the benefit of the watchers, and so far Zachary was showing no signs of being able to reciprocate. She remained still and hoped to sleep, but the circumstances made it difficult, and the revelations about her cousin battered her mind.

Eventually she did doze off, dreaming something of her father standing at a ship rail trying to peer through a fog bank.

“Arrows,” he said.

Yes, an arrow had killed him. She surfaced to wakefulness with tears burning her cheeks, at first disoriented. She was not in her old bed, nor was she in her new bed in the queen’s chamber. She blinked through the darkness to where the watchers should be sitting, but she could not make out their figures in the dim light. She hadn’t a clue to the hour, but they must have grown tired of watching two people sleep and left for their own beds.

“Arrows,” Zachary muttered.

Startled, Estora turned to face him. It must have been he who had awakened her. His eyes were open, aware. “Zachary?” she whispered. She caressed his warm, damp cheek, each contact with his skin sending tingles through her body. Whatever they’d dosed her with had not yet worn off.

“Arrows,” he said again, looking at her.

She should call to Ellen to summon Master Destarion, but Destarion said Zachary might awaken, that it would be all right.

Instead, she said, “Yes, it was an arrow that wounded you.”

The muscle in his cheek ticked. “No . . . battle. The arrows . . .” He gazed at her and the dim light shone in his fever-bright eyes.

“What battle, Zachary?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Has it happened?”

“There has been no battle.”

He started to sit up, but she feared he’d try to leave the bed and stand and she thought he would be too weak to bear it. She pressed his shoulder so he would sink back into his pillows. He relaxed, but she found she could not, that she did not wish to remove her hand from his shoulder, but instead trailed it along his powerful chest, over the contours of his stomach, his muscles quivering in reaction to her touch. Each variation of texture, each hollow and rise that was the landscape of his body, quickened desire through her.