Page 34 of The Maiden

“So it is true that you have gone to his side. Cilean said that you wanted him for yourself and that is why you knocked her down in the Honorium. Tell me, does your blood boil hotter for this pale foreigner than it does for your own people?”

Her nostrils flared at him. “Do you think that your sly insults will goad me into murdering him? Then you do not know me. I tell you that he is a fool, and he will do himself in with no one’s help. You will be made king and you won’t have the blood of your English brother on your hands.”

“Unless he breeds a child with you,” Geralt said.

“There is no chance of that,” Jura answered.

“He is not a man?” Geralt asked in wonder.

“I do not know. He says he has made a vow to God that—” She broke off. “There will be no children during the short life of the man. Wait and be patient, you will be king.” She turned away from him and walked through the inner gates into the city. It was quiet now, with both man and animals settling down to sleep.

Unite the tribes, she thought. Impossible idea, of course. The tribes hated each other too much to ever get along, and that stupid Englishman would never be able to understand that. One had to be Lanconian to understand the Lanconian mind.

Oh well, she thought, shrugging, it didn’t really matter anyway since the fool was going to get himself killed before long. She paused for a moment. It would be a shame for him to die before she spent some time in bed with him. After all, they were married.

With a yawn, she turned back toward Thal’s old castle. Tonight she would be secreted in a room with him and perhaps tomorrow she would no longer be a maiden. She smiled and hastened her step.

Chapter Eight

JURA CORRECTLY ASSUMED that her husband was using Thal’s old room as his own, but when she pushed open the door, he looked up from a table with a startled expression.

“Why are you here?” he snapped.

“You ordered me here,” she said patiently. “You had your insolent Englishmen take me from the women’s quarters, with my belongings, and bring me here. I assumed I was to take on the duties of being queen—for as long as I am such,” she added under her breath.

He looked at her for a long moment. “I guess I must keep you,” he said with resignation. “Go and sit over there and be quiet.” He turned back to the table, which was littered with books and rolled papers.

Jura wondered if he had brought the books with him or if they had been taken from Thal’s meager and mostly unused library. She had no intention of obeying him, so she went to look over his shoulder.

He whirled on her. “What are you doing?” he snapped.

“Looking,” she answered, then nodded toward the map he was holding. “That is wrong. The Vatells’ border is farther north. Thal seized a good bit of the land when I was a child. My father was killed in the battle.” She turned away to sit on the edge of the bed and began unwrapping the garters on her legs.

Rowan turned toward her. “What do you know of the borders?”

“More than you do, it seems.”

He stood, picked up the map, and put it on the bed behind her. “Show me how things have changed. This map was made by Feilan over twenty years ago. Who else has my father slaughtered in order to take their land?”

Jura pushed off her boots and wiggled her bare toes. “Thal did what he had to do. Half of the Vatells’ land is in the mountains where nothing grows, and they were raiding the Irials to steal our grain.”

“So my father put an end to their raiding,” Rowan said thoughtfully. “How did the Vatells fare through that winter?”

“Not well,” Jura said. “Do you plan to hate everything about us?”

Rowan looked surprised. “How can I hate my own people? Here, show me the new borders.”

She leaned closer to him and, with her finger, showed him the smaller Vatell territory. “They are reasonable people, at least fairly so,” she said, “not like the Zernas or the Ultens. The Vatells—”

“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently. “Now show me where the Irials’ grain fields are.”

“If you know so much, why don’t you know that?”

He pointed to a place on the map. “If they have not moved, the fields are here. Protected by three rivers and guarded at regular intervals by Irial guards. The crops are barley, wheat, and rye. Sheep are raised here on this plain. The horses they have are descendants of those stolen from the Fearens, and still the young Irial men raid the Fearen camps at night. They cross Vatell country here in the dense forest then go along a goat path here until—”

“How do you know this?” Jura asked.

“When other boys were chasing a ball in the courtyard, I was hidden away with old Feilan learning the Ulten language.”