Allegiance, page 36
part #3 of River of Souls Series
“I love you,” he said.
She was glad she sat, because the statement, delivered so plainly, robbed her of all strength. This was no sophisticated declaration. It was a cry of desperation.
“They told me I must marry,” he went on. “That as the king, I must have heirs. And now…” His voice edged higher, softer. Almost like the woman’s voice he once possessed. “Now I can.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“That I love you,” he said. “That I cannot marry anyone but you. If that means I give up the crown I will. And yet, I hope you will say yes. I know what I ask. Ilse—” He spun around, hands held out to either side. “Ilse. My love. Once, long ago, we talked about Anike and Stefan. We would be ordinary people, with no ties or obligations to Veraene’s Court. That is no longer possible … if you marry me, if you will be my queen and my partner. You must forget Anike and all our dreams of anonymity.”
Oh. Oh, my love.
Ilse stood and faced her beloved. She dipped a finger into her wine and ran it along the cup’s edge. In old Duszranjo, this would symbolize an oath of allegiance. Water from my body, wine from my cup, thus we are bound together.
“So I vowed to you two years ago,” she said softly. “When Maester Hax died, and you asked me to take his place.”
“I remember,” he said. “Do you remember my reply?”
She did. He had completed the ritual, though she had only meant to vow her allegiance to him.
“I love you,” he said. “I cannot be king without you. If you refuse the crown, then I will as well. Let another have it.”
He dipped his finger into the cup she held. His gaze fixed on Ilse’s, he ran his fingertip along the cup’s rim. “Magic from my body to yours, wine from a single cup, this binds us together. Ilse, I love you. Will you marry me? Will you be my queen?”
“I love you,” she said. “I will gladly serve Veraene with you. We are joined as partners, we always have been.”
Her hand lifted to his cheek as he bent down to kiss her lightly. His lips were warm. His scent pervaded her senses. Cinnamon and sandalwood. The fresh clean scent of male. Of Raul Kosenmark and no other.
Yes, and yes, and yes forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE KINGDOM OF Veraene had existed for almost four hundred years, the empire of Erythandra another five or six hundred years longer, depending on which historians you believed. A thousand years of history, then, each one adding to tradition, pebble upon pebble, building up to an inexorable mountain.
But theirs was no private marriage, Ilse thought as she and Raul worked through the endless preparations. Ordinary people might join their lives with a simple promise, but she and Raul would be more than husband and wife, they would be king and queen. The ceremonies of wedding and coronation were signposts to history.
Seven months passed, then the day itself arrived.
She rose before dawn. Her attendants—she had dozens now—slept in the room outside her own bedchamber. Ilse moved silently to the window. She wanted just a few moments alone before the madness began.
Her rooms overlooked the eastern quadrant of the city, which was almost invisible at this hour lost in indigo shadows. Above, stars spangled the sky, but a scarlet line marked the far horizon. Even as she watched, light rolled over the plains, like the tide rushing toward shore, revealing farms and pastures, open fields, the Gallenz River as it looped around and through Duenne, and the city itself.
A breeze filtered through the open window, carrying with it a mélange of scents, like voices of the city whispering to her. Wood smoke. A thread of incense. Traces of perfume from her bed linens. The breeze curled around her, and she caught a whiff of another, well-remembered perfume.
“Are you thinking of running away?”
Nadine’s voice held a hint of laughter, barely suppressed.
“Hardly,” Ilse said. “Unless I could persuade Raul to flee with me. How did you evade my guards?”
“I seduced them one after another. They were too grateful to demand mere money. As for your royal beloved, he might agree to an elopement. I saw his expression last week, during that dreadful meeting with the chief steward.”
Nadine had not officially attended that meeting, but Ilse had long ago suspected Nadine had infiltrated all the secret passageways within this palace. Or not all of them—that might require a lifetime—but certainly the ones that let her observe such meetings. No doubt she and Heloïse used those dark corridors for other nefarious activities as well.
Ilse turned, expecting to see Nadine’s usual mocking smile.
But no. Nadine’s mouth tucked in at both corners, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I remember,” she whispered. “I remember when you first came to us in Tiralien. I—please do not hate me for this—I saw you bruised and bloody as our beloved lord carried you from the doorstep. You should have seen how he snapped at Lord Dedrick and the others.” Here she tried for a genuine smile and failed. “No. Perhaps not. However often I wished to smack Lord Dedrick, he was a true and honest lover, and I grieve for his end.”
She blinked. The tears vanished, as if by magic, and once more Nadine was the elegant courtesan. Ilse knew how to see beyond that mask, however. “I love you,” she said, and touched Nadine’s cheek. “I am glad to have you as my friend. Will you and Heloïse marry here, or wait until you return to Valentain?”
Two dancers, in the complicated dance of love and friendship. Nadine tilted her head, accepting this new direction for the conversation. “I told her I was unfit for marriage.”
A pause. But Ilse had learned how to wait.
“This winter,” Nadine said quickly. “We stay in court another month, then return to Valentain with the duke.” Her gaze dropped to the tiled floor. “I am afraid. Laugh if you like. You should. But I am terrified. My only courage comes from you and the example you give me. Yes, you. I have watched you confront kitchen girls and kings without flinching. I hope merely to face my beloved’s family when they no longer have matters of state to distract them.”
Ilse clasped Nadine’s hands. “I am happy for you.”
Nadine stifled a laugh. “And I am for you. Now”—she expelled a breath—“let us wake your indolent attendants.”
And so it began, the hours of formal ritual. Trailed by her senior attendants, Ilse marched in a formal procession to the grand formal baths in the lower levels of Duenne Palace. There she immersed herself in warm water mixed with oil and scented with herbs, the same as Armand’s bride had, and all the other queens of Veraene and Erythandra, a tradition recorded as far back as the times when the Veraenen tribes still lived in the northern plains.
Cleansed as ritual required, she submitted to her attendants, who wrapped her in bleached towels of new linen, woven especially for this day. She and they mounted the stairs to her new chambers, the ones formally assigned to the queen, where her bridal clothing awaited her.
But first, more rituals, more tradition. Her hair brushed dry and tied with white ribbons, so that it fell in a dark cascade down her back. A long loose tunic of new linen donned. It barely hid her body in the full sunlight, but she would not leave this room. Only her attendants and Raul himself would see her.
A barbaric custom and costume both, he had murmured, when they were first confronted with this oldest of all traditions.
Yours or mine, she had whispered back.
He had smirked at her response, but as he entered the chamber this morning, she could see that all pretense of amusement had leaked away from his face, leaving him pale and grave. He, too, had endured a cleansing bath, and he, too, was dressed in unbleached linen, his costume a robe caught around his waist by a hemp rope, and nothing else. As he strode forward, the cloth rippled back. He might as well have entered the room naked.
The attendants all glanced away. Ilse met his gaze, saw his face suffused with embarrassment. “That is not like you,” she whispered.
“I am growing old,” he whispered back.
She laughed.
He grinned back and took her hands.
“That, my lord and almost king, is not part of the ritual.”
Raul leaned toward her. “You have no idea what damage I wish to inflict upon ritual at this moment,” he whispered.
Her cheeks flooded with warmth. “I can guess.”
Servants brought unadorned stone mugs, an equally plain jug, and baskets woven from reeds that contained their breakfast, then they withdrew, along with all the attendants. Ilse and Raul partook of a plain meal, unleavened bread dipped in oil and sweet herbs, plain white cheese, and coffee brewed thick and bitter. Later, after the marriage and coronation, would come the grand feast with royal guests, nobles from court, and emissaries from other kingdoms and republics, but for this hour, the future king and queen were ordinary citizens, or as much like them as possible.
Raul poured coffee into their mugs. “Anike,” he said.
She lifted hers in salute, her hands curled around the rough surface. “Stefan.”
The names they had used, so many years before, when running from Markus Khandarr’s assassins. It would be their private signal, a sign that despite the demands of kingship and queenship, they could maintain a secret bubble for themselves alone.
* * *
THE BREAKFAST DONE, Raul vanished to his own quarters to dress for the public ceremonies. Another bout of panic overtook Ilse, and she wished she had Nadine to mock her, Kathe to talk quietly and sensibly, but she knew both her friends were busy with their own preparations. And so she submitted to her attendants, who anointed her with rosewater perfume, who lined her eyes and lips with golden paint, and who guided her into the many layers of her bridal costume: the linen shift, undergown of patterned ivory silk, the long tunic that fell to her knees, the grand robes of gold cloth that overlaid the rest. They unplaited her hair, brushed it smooth, and worked it into tighter braids, which they wound around into a low crown to echo the golden crown she would receive later that day. The rest they let fall in a loose waterfall down her back, which they adorned with miniature diamonds. That, too, was a custom, a reminder of Lir’s tears spent on her brother’s, her lover’s, death and set as stars in the sky.
A second breakfast followed, one attended by the senior members of Veraene’s Court, both from Armand’s reign, as well as those who would serve Ilse and Raul. Next came a ceremony dedicated to Lir and Toc, held in a small chamber with those same councillors as witnesses, then another in memory of all the past kings and queens of Veraene.
How many died by treachery? Ilse wondered. How many by undiscovered rebellion?
An unprofitable line of thought. Raul must have guessed, because he pressed a hand against hers, and when she glanced up, he smiled wryly.
Back to their separate rooms, where attendants washed and dressed and adorned them a third time. More jewels. More paint, with silver to accent the gold. Ilse thought she might weep from exhaustion, but then she remembered she loved Raul and wished to marry him, and that sustained her.
And then it was time.
The bells of Duenne chimed the hour, a bright cascade of melody pouring over the city, like sunlight over the horizon. Ilse’s senior attendant scanned her one last time. She touched her fingertips to Ilse’s cheek—and now her expression changed from remote to amazed, as if she suddenly realized herself what the day portended. Ilse drew a deep breath and smiled. No longer a fixed one, or one she summoned for the moment, but one in truth.
It was time and past.
Ilse proceeded forward. An attendant accompanied her on either side, unobtrusive guides along the web of corridors and passageways. They passed from the royal wing into a more private region in the center of the palace, through another series of corridors, and then at last to the grand public chamber where kings and queens had bowed for their coronations.
Raul had arrived first. He stood to one side, clad in darkest indigo, with no other decoration except diamonds set in both earlobes. His glance swung up, pinned Ilse with an expression of joy and desire combined.
She stepped to his side. “My beloved.”
“My beloved and my queen.”
The ceremony they had arranged months before, in spite of arguments with all their advisers. Even now, Ilse was not certain the guardians of tradition would relinquish their hold upon the old and honored ways. Only when her attendants, and Raul’s, stepped aside, leaving them to march toward the thrones by themselves, could she believe they had done it.
Down the aisle, with all the guests watching, from either side and from the balconies above.
Up the seven steps to the dais. There, the thrones awaited, and on their cushions, the two plain crowns that she and Raul had insisted upon.
“My beloved,” Raul said. His voice was clear and loud. “Will you be my wife?”
Her throat caught in sudden happiness. She swallowed and managed a smile. “I will. And you, my beloved, will you be my husband?”
His voice wavered, steadied. “I will.”
They lifted the crowns from the thrones. Facing each other, they knelt. It was a maneuver they had practiced a dozen or more times, but Ilse’s hand shook as she set the crown upon Raul’s head, while he did the same for her. The haze of terror and amazement lifted a moment, and she saw that he was trembling, too.
“You are weeping,” Raul whispered.
“For joy,” she replied in a voice as soft as his. Then she reached up to cup his cheek, which was damp with tears as well. Without a thought, she drew him close and kissed him on the lips. He wrapped both arms around her in a tight embrace and returned her kiss.
That last was not tradition, but she hardly cared.
* * *
THE CEREMONY CONTINUED with each ranking noble and all the servants of the court kneeling before the new king and queen, and vowing their allegiance. First came the regional governors in order of seniority. Lord Alberich de Ytel of Laufvenberc, governor of the city of Duenne, led them all, having served Baerne of Angersee as commander, then in court and council, until Baerne had appointed him to his post as governor. Lord Alberich’s skin lay in deep folds, his complexion mottled with brown and black spots, but his eyes were keen as the servant assisted him up the steps and onto his knees.
I am too young, too ignorant to accept this man’s allegiance, Ilse thought.
Nevertheless, she clasped her hands around his, and listened with at least the outward seeming of calm as he recited his vows.
“My queen, my liege, my sovereign, and mother to our people, I offer my heart, my honor, my strength. All that is mine to give, in this life and all those to come, I lay before you…”
It was an ornately worded formula, thick with imagery. The words had not changed since that first vow, spoken by the clan chiefs to the first king of Erythandra. Lord Ytel spoke in halting phrases, his voice breathy and almost inaudible, but Ilse had the impression of a great will behind that frail mask of flesh. What he swore was the truth, in Lir’s name and Toc’s blood. She could do no less for him.
“My servant, my brother and child of blood, I swear my allegiance in turn, heart and body and soul, to you and to the children of your flesh and of your soul, in service to our kingdom and its welfare…”
She almost faltered when she declared herself his mother. Merely symbolism, she told herself. The heart of that vow was not beyond her. Her heart and life were the kingdom’s. The words themselves were merely confirmation.
She was glad, however, when she could withdraw so that Raul could receive the man’s vows and give his in turn. Only when the servant approached once more to help Lord Ytel stand, did the old governor send her one searching glance, a slight nod, before he turned to descend the many steps and allow the next governor to approach.
More governors—Stephane Tomassi of Pommersien, Vieth of Gallenz and Tiralien, the rulers of various provinces—Ournes, Morauvín, Jurazmec, and more. Ilse thought she would become numb to the ritual, but no, each time her hands reached out, she felt a shiver run through her, scalp to toes, as if Lir and Toc had laid their hands upon hers as well.
Only twice did the smooth procession pause. Once, as Nicol Joannis from Fortezzien mounted the steps. He kept his eyes lowered as he knelt before Ilse and gave his vows, but just once, as he shifted to face Raul, his gaze flicked up. Raul’s expression, already painted smooth and impassive, took on an even more remote cast. Ilse could almost hear their unspoken conversation.
You abandoned me. You abandoned us all.
I was afraid. I have no other excuse.
Then, almost imperceptibly, Raul’s stiff expression relented. He pressed his hands around Nicol Joannis’s, who in turn bowed deeper before his new king. Ilse breathed a sigh of relief. We are no longer enemies or conspirators. We are king and queen and liege. So we must act for the good of the kingdom.
The second pause came once the queue of governors wound to its end, and the first of the ranking nobles came forward, in an order determined by yet another arcane formula dictated by eight centuries of custom and pride.
First among them was Duke Alvaro Andreas Bertold Kosenmark, who marched haltingly up the steps. In spite of the mage surgeon’s efforts, Raul’s father still limped, and his knuckles were pale as he gripped his cane. He waved away the hovering servants, and dragged his left foot up the last step. His gaze met his son’s in a brief and searching exchange. Then the old duke eased himself onto his knees before Ilse to give his vows of allegiance.
And so it continued throughout the morning, the line winding to its end as the sun crossed overhead. When the last minor lord gave and received his oath, and withdrew, Ilse closed her eyes for a moment. Only now was she aware that her feet throbbed from standing.
Raul pressed his hand against hers. “Tonight,” he murmured.
“If we survive the remainder of this day,” she answered softly.
“Oh, we shall. I swear it. I have,” he added, “a great deal of practice in making vows.”
