The High King's Tomb

Estora closed the door again, shutting away the clamor. If they enjoyed all the wedding planning on her behalf, she would leave them to it. If they made any decisions that displeased her, she could simply command that changes be made and no one would dare question her. She was to be queen, after all, wasn’t she? She could request what she wanted, and when she wanted it.

She daydreamed that on the eve of the wedding she decided she didn’t like the gown and demanded it be remade. The tailor would have no choice but to comply. It could mean his head! Not that Zachary would allow such a punishment, of course, and not that she would actually consider it, but she was only now beginning to recognize the power she was marrying into; the power she could wield over others.

She emitted a tiny little hiccup and covered her mouth and blushed though no one was there to witness it.

I’ve had a little too much wine as well.

She quelled an abrupt giggle and fled down the corridor, barely noticing that her Weapon, looking uncharacteristically harried, emerged from the chamber and followed her.

Estora stepped out into the central courtyard gardens, breathing free at last. The chamber, her mother’s parlor while in residence, had been crammed with so many bodies that the air was stuffy and stale. This was much more the thing, this clean autumn air. It was sobering.

She walked the gravel pathway, drawing her shawl about her shoulders. The mist that permeated everything had subsided, but the sky was still heavy and the air smelled of wet earth and moldering leaves. The garden had gone to dull yellows and browns, the flower beds already mulched against frost and the coming winter. It was a sparse scene, with only a few of the trees holding onto their leaves.

If Estora thought things unbearable now, winter would only be worse, cooped up in the castle with all her relatives and nowhere to escape. The gardens would be snowy, icy, cold. She shivered at the mere thought. Spring would prove no better, for then would be the wedding.

It didn’t help that Zachary did not have a moment to spare for her. She knew the realm must come first, but why couldn’t he even involve her in the business of its running? If she was to be queen, she must learn all she could about it. If he didn’t have time for her as his betrothed, he should at least spare time for the one with whom he’d be sharing power. She refused to ascend the throne simply to be his brood mare, and if that was all he expected of her, then he was in for a surprise.

The arrival of the Eletians sparked her discontent. The castle, of course, was full of gossip about the mysterious folk and what their visit portended, and she, like everyone else, wanted to see firsthand their encampment, at the very least. Instead, she had to rely on secondhand descriptions of the tents, for both the king and her father had forbidden her to leave the castle grounds. Forbidden her! Was she to be queen, or a prisoner? If the latter, she might as well throw herself off the castle’s highest tower at once.

She pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. It was not fair. It was not fair that she have no choice in this marriage, and it was not fair that she be excluded from the business of the country she was to help lead. Her father and Zachary treated her as though she were some fine porcelain vase that would crack and break if someone even glanced inappropriately at her.

If only they knew the truth! The truth of her relationship with F’ryan. She felt faint at the very thought of its exposure, for her father’s response would be swift, extreme, and devastating. He’d consider her ruined, and cast her from the clan forever, never permitting her near family members again.

Zachary’s reaction? That was more difficult to divine, for he was in many ways a mystery to her. How strictly did he judge transgressions of the heart?

She slowed her walk, considering. So far she hadn’t given anyone any reason to doubt her virtue. Only the Green Riders knew about her and F’ryan, and they were bound by honor to keep her secret. None of them wanted to see her disowned by her clan, and by safeguarding her reputation, the Riders also honored F’ryan, and his wish that they look out for her.

For this Estora was thankful beyond measure, but she also knew the Riders were oathbound servants of the king. In light of the betrothal, how could they continue to withhold the secret from him?

“And for how long?” she murmured. Long enough that he did not discover the truth till their wedding night?

She paused and picked up a perfect crimson maple leaf from the pathway and twirled it between her fingers. In court, chaste behavior was expected, but what actually happened was another thing. Estora knew of young noble ladies who carried on secret affairs, though it was difficult to say for certain which of these liasons were actually consummated. Much of it appeared innocent: gifts hidden in niches, soulful poetry read through open windows, romantic strolls through the garden, stolen kisses, all accompanied by an ample amount of swooning and dreamy looks.

It was all a result, she believed, of young people who would soon be faced with arranged marriages, often to total strangers. They saw only a lifetime barren of love ahead of them, a marriage made for alliance and bloodline, not for personal happiness. It pushed forbidden romances to be all the more fiery, passionate. And heartrending. Sometimes driving them to their apex.

Periodically a young woman would be “sent away” from court by her parents for one purpose or another, but everyone knew the real reason. Either it was to separate her from an unsuitable paramour, or, if the young lady in question was not careful enough, to conceal her gravid condition. A family of status, especially a noble family, would not wish their good name besmirched by such a disgrace.