Girion dropped back to all fours and continued at a slower pace, keeping the horse at a trot, not a gallop, so Jocasta could take in the sights for longer. So he could look back at her for longer, and see her face kissed by snowflakes and bathed in that lilac light.
So he could pretend that she was becoming his queen out of love, not because they offered each other necessary things, not because of some pact, an informal alliance.
I don’t want to be in love, do I?
It would be easier to trust her if I thought she loved me.
Well... I hold power over her parents’ livelihoods in some small way, and that matters to her.
I wonder if she realizes what power she holds over me, what power she will wield, especially once there is an heir to think of?
Girion’s heart was suddenly heavy and cold, and he didn’t want to look back and see her laughing, awed face anymore.
“I SAW MEN THAT WEREBearfolk,” Jocasta hissed, voice quivering with excitement as they worked their way to the side gate.
“Not all shifters can take such a form.”
“Can you?”
“Indeed.”
“Does it have to do with the strength of your powers?”
“No, more a matter of talent, control, and parentage. My magic is Air magic. Your talents are in Air and Water?”
“Some Earth, as well. I hear some can learn Fire, if they try.” She hesitated. “I could try. If that would make me more useful. I know it’ll be cobbled together, not natural, like those in the other parts of Wylding.”
“That would be useful, indeed.” Girion halted the horse at the smallest side gate, one that she identified as leading to the kitchen and courtyards by the faint smell of smoke and roasting meat. Or—she sniffed again as the wind shifted, it could have been the stables.
“Cole!” Girion thumped twice on the gate, hard enough that the wooden gate with its stone and iron reinforcements rattled.
“Raise the bar!” a voice called from above, and Jocasta craned her neck to see a thin section of wall, different from the thick, teeming sections that first greeted her.
Creaking, shifting, and slamming accompanied the heavy sound of metal and wood, and the door swung open.
The man who came to her shop yesterday was there, dressed in uniform, furs, and a hooded cloak that was shoved back to reveal his face. “Good. You came,” he addressed her, and then bowed low.
Jocasta sat tight in the saddle, her legs aching from being cold and forced to straddle a mount that was only slightly smaller than a rowboat for hours. She looked at Girion, then the man bowing. She was no queen yet! People didn’t bow to a poor fisherman’s daughter in tatty robes. “Hello, again,” she said, and realized she would probably have to read some books or scrolls on how to behave like a lady.
She’d probably have to read even more if she were supposed to be a queen.
“Hello, again,” Cole said, raising his head with a smile. “Come in, through the kitchens.”
“It is necessary,” Girion said quickly, apprehension on his face.
Jocasta looked through the smoky air, where scents of cooking were mixing with gusts of icy wind and snow blown from the ground and off the roof. “I don’t mind.”
“Where do I put her, sire?” Cole muttered as they walked together.
Girion came to her side and stuck out his hand.
He wants to help me down. Well, my legs are in quite a state; it might be necessary.“Thank you.”
“Put her in the Queen’s Suite.”
“Uh. Lady Renata might like that suite when she returns. That was the Archduke’s suggestion.”
Girion gave his underling a look that would melt iron. “I do not believe that I will take that particular suggestion into account.”
