Page 17 of The Castle & the Cloister

Ariana nodded. For the briefest moment, she sat still, staring down at the two infants in her arms. Then she bowed low to kiss her daughter’s face, leaving it wet with tears as Fia had done with the prince.

“Take her,” Ariana ordered, her voice low and broken. “Take her before I lose the will for this.”

Fia did, gathering up the small, silent princess and draping a loose corner of linen over her face, just as the queen had done.

But on the threshold, Ariana stopped her.

“Fia,” the queen said. “You left a child of your own behind? Does it hurt you, to be apart?”

Fia looked back. Ariana still lay surrounded by blood, visibly exhausted and utterly alone except for the little prince sleeping in her arms.

“I have a daughter. Miriel,” Fia said. “I’ve only been gone two days, and it’s… it’s like a heartbreak that happens moment by moment, breath by breath. She is always in my thoughts. But I make it my prayer that as often as I think of her, the Beloved Three will do so as well, and that she will be blessed by their kindness and their regard.”

“Thank you.” The queen’s voice was faint, her eyes beginning to drift shut. “Oh, Fia, thank you for coming. I don’t think I’ve ever needed someone more. Will you be back, after you’ve finished with the Priest?”

Fia cursed Matria Dolenza inwardly, because as she looked at Ariana, a brief stab of the same protective anger she felt for Miriel rose up in her chest. Setting her jaw, she shook her head and pushed against her own nature. This was not what she’d left her old life for.

“I’m not sure,” Fia said reluctantly. “My daughter’s counting on me, so I don’t like to make any promises. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

But the words came out of the queen thin and hopeless, and Fia was forced to hurry away to hide how the sound of them pained her.

V

I dreamed of you last night, and of your queen, alone in the bedchamber. You were a flame, she a star, and when the two of you came together, your fire burned her until she cried out for pleasure and anguish and was consumed utterly. But she left behind a mote of stardust, overlooked by you. I took it for my own and raised it to become a ravening maw that consumed all of the known world.

When I woke from the dream, my hands were drenched with blood.

—FROM AFON CAERVALLIN TO ORDEN INVER

Orden Inver, master of all Honoria, wanted so many things so badly that often it felt as if he was a hollow man. Inside, there was nothing—just a gaping hole he perpetually strove to fill. He wanted Honoria. Wanted to add to its power and prestige. Wanted a great name for himself, and a secure place in the iron chain of the Inver dynasty. Wanted game pie for dinner, a warm body in his bed afterward, and a morning where no duties called on his time and attention.

The greater wants, he was sure of. Honoria was his, the queen would give him an heir, and somehow, someday, he would add meaningfully to the Inver legacy. The lesser wants were beyond his grasp. Game pie would not do for a court dinner at the onset of summer council, he could no longer stomach a bedfellow who was not the queen, and affairs of state had wakened Orden before dawn every day for ten years.

What he really wanted, he thought irritably to himself as he strode through the castle, was Ariana. He wanted her safe and well by his side. Since the day he’d clapped eyes on her, he’d wanted the lapsed soria, and he kept on wanting her. Perhaps another woman would have bored him as queen, and he’d have indulged himself with a string of mistresses. Orden wasn’t sure and didn’t bother dwelling on it. He had wedded and bedded Ari, against the strenuous objections of every one of his counselors, and he still wanted her because, damn him, he always wanted what he didn’t have. He had his queen’s body. Had her allegiance, in many ways, even if he could never hope to have it entirely. But there were things she kept hidden from him—depths heknewshe withheld, refusing to let him plumb. Orden was not a man of half measures. If he wanted a thing, he wanted it all. And oh, he wanted that daughter of stars more than he’d ever desired anything else.

Descending the castle’s broad, winged main staircase, Orden shoved through the double doors at their base, which led into the courtyard. It was a hot, still day and his ceremonial guards stood sweating in full uniform, kitted out in the Inver crimson and gold, a flame emblem glinting on every shoulder.

“Gaius,” Orden said tersely as the head of the royal guard broke away to join him. “It’s wretchedly hot. Tell the men to fall out and wait in the shade. Send a page for a water butt, as well. No use having someone faint on his feet. I won’t impress Caervallion at the cost of tormenting my own soldiers.”

Gaius nodded and carried the king’s orders out with alacrity. Guards passing their sovereign offered respectful but companionable nods as they dispersed to loiter about the courtyard. Better, Orden thought. He was not a despot like Afon. He’d not greet his rival with rigidity and formality, but with a court and a guard devoted to him and pleased to have him overseeing the Inver house. The same couldn’t be said of Afon—Caervallion chafed under his rule. The Caervallin people were too recently governed by sorias to readily accept a king, especially one who came out of nowhere and rose to power in the span of a few blood-soaked years. Afon was feared and despised. Orden, if he had his way, would be loved. Would be the first Inver to truly lay claim to that response from his people. Honoria ought to be ready to overlook the sins of his forebearers—she’dhad two centuries to reconcile herself to the past and learn to let bygones be bygones. Unlike Afon, Orden was no longer concerned with anything as crude as brute dominion. He was after his country’s heart and soul.

Across the courtyard, an unobtrusive entrance to the servants’ corridors was flung open. One of the pages barreled out into the sunshine—a spotty-faced boy who seemed to be always underfoot, and doing his job with more diligence than most. The page stopped dead, scanned the courtyard, and then hurried toward Gaius, but Orden drew him up short with a word.

“Boy,” the king called out. “Whatever your news or your troubles, come to me.”

Transparently overawed, the page approached.

“What is it?” Orden asked, resolving to learn the boy’s name later. He ought to be treated well and groomed for eventual prominence in the royal household. Glora had been making noises for years about how taxing her role was—perhaps she’d like to train the boy to be castellan, once she was ready to step down as chatelaine. That would be the end of an era—Orden could not recall a time when Glora had not ruled the mountain castle’s staff with her familiar harried efficiency.

The page looked up at Orden and an odd flurry of emotion crossed his face. Pride, worry, excitement, reluctance.

“Out with it,” Orden said.

“The queen’s trial is ended,” the page said breathlessly. “She’s given Honoria a son and heir.”

Orden could not help grinning. He felt as if his very bones were glad. While his brother the Priest had always been able to hide strong emotion, Orden didn’t have the temperament for even feigned reserve. He clapped the page on one shoulder so hard that the boy’s teeth rattled.