Sunday's Child(26)
Astonishingly pale, with hair so white it gleamed in the torchlight, he surveyed the gaping crowd in a measured silence, his nearly colorless eyes narrowed, measuring. He was tall like his kinsmen, with the long, muscled thighs of an experienced horseman. Latent power radiated from him, an aura of stately grace that emphasized his odd beauty and lent his sharp, elegant features a haughty cast.
Castil managed to drag her gaze away long enough to search out Kareena, who stood closer to the king. Her pallor matched his, only hers was of horror instead of birthright. No fantasy of the handsome Farnoush could possibly blot out the reality of the nuptial bed that awaited her with her soon-to-be husband.
The sudden notes of music played by the musicians who took their cue from a frantic minister broke the hall’s gravid silence. The crowd of boyars breathed a collective sigh, their surprise transforming into a morbid curiosity as they jostled each other for the first opportunity to present themselves to the visiting monarch.
Castil knew it futile to try to reach Kareena in the milling crowd. She managed to catch her eye briefly, offering what encouragement she could with a smile. Kareena gave a grim nod before turning away.
The evening passed in an endless line of introductions. As lesser boyars, Castil and her father were nearly the last of the families to be presented. She tried to still the butterflies that fluttered madly in her belly. Like everyone else, she had been unable to take her eyes off the king. Unlike them, she didn’t find him ugly or strange. He was, in all ways, a striking individual, the air of leadership resting heavily on his broad shoulders.
When they finally reached the dais where the king sat, the herald announced their names in a hoarsening voice. “Devilos Veras and his daughter, Castil il Veras.”
Doranis’s bored expression shifted when he noticed Castil staring at the embroidered insignia on his tunic.
“Blood of fey kings,” she translated and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified at speaking out of turn. The king’s pale blue gaze sharpened.
Devilos’s fingers dug into his daughter’s arm as Doranis straightened in his seat, then leaned forward, renewed interest glittering in his eyes. “You read doa Enrai?”
She tried to answer, but stopped at the increasing tightness of her father’s grip. He spoke for her. “Yes, Your Majesty. My daughter and I are scribes. We’re familiar with the old languages such as doa Enrai.”
Castil’s lips thinned at the scornful mutters around them. Aristocracy engaged in trade was a thing viewed with contempt. Judging by Doranis’s intrigued regard, he didn’t hold the same opinion. She found herself admiring the flawless alabaster face with its long thin nose and prominent cheekbones.
“Fascinating,” he said. “I have in my possession a set of scrolls written in doa Enrai. They are accounts of the last days of the Elder cities before the advent of the Wastelands. I’ve translated some of the writing. Perhaps I’ll send copies to you.” His gaze slid over Castil, curious and measuring. “My compliments, Madam il Veras.”
Castil blushed, surprised by his remark. She heard the restless murmurings of the boyars waiting behind them and bowed with her father before leaving the king and merging with the crowd.
That brief meeting irrevocably changed her, for in the days that he and his delegation resided in Caskadan, Doranis sought her out numerous times. It was the cause of raised eyebrows and speculation among the boyars and warning glares from the Marcam family.
Their concerns were baseless. Castil posed no threat to Kareena or her family. When she spoke with the king, it was of scholarly things: ancient scrolls, and books they both read. Dowerless and low-ranking, she should have been far beneath the notice of a monarch, and most treated Doranis’s interest in her as an amusing foible—one odd creature’s fascination for another.
The union between the Marcams and House Alisdane commenced without incident, though Kareena looked pale and ill as she held Doranis’s hand and spoke her vows before overlord and country. Castil watched the exchange with a mixture of pity and envy—pity for her friend who had been sold into marriage to a man she found repulsive, envy because Castil would have gladly traded places with her.
Kareena refused to look beyond the white mark of the Wastelands, seeing only a man disfigured by the old magic. She didn’t know of the remarkable mind and dry wit that lay behind that severe visage. But Castil did, had watched, enthralled, as the days passed in celebration and Doranis revealed aspects of himself that would have surprised his new wife.
On the day the king and his new queen were to return to Helenrisia, Castil made her way to the docks and waited amidst a crowd of onlookers as the Helenese royal couple and its retainers gathered at the pier. Tears clogged her throat. She and Kareena had said their goodbyes the previous night, crying as they hugged each other a final time. She couldn’t help but be here for a last glimpse at her friend.
Doranis was unmistakable among his escort. Mounted on a big bay stallion, he rode robed and hooded against the summer sun’s bright light and sat tall in the saddle.
As if sensing her eyes upon him, he maneuvered the horse in her direction, the slow turn of his head revealing his search for the watcher.
Castil’s eyes widened as the bay suddenly trotted toward her, sending bystanders scattering out of the way. She froze in place, squinting as she peered up into the shadows of the king’s hood. The light eyes, ringed in heavy smears of protective black kohl, shone with pleasure at her presence. King and scribe eyed each other on the small section of pier.