“You claimed yourself, my son, that there is no stronger bond than a betrothal,” he said. “What better salve for bitter wounds than love?”
Agnes merely stared at the king, uncomprehending. And Liuprand’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“In the late hours of the night I devised a solution,” Nicephorus went on. “A solution I believe will greatly please both aggrieved parties. Lady Agnes will wed the Master of Blood.”
Silence reigned across the hall. It reigned cruelly and coldly. Its frigid grasp was so powerful that Agnes could not even think; her mind emptied instantly into a slippery black pit. Her only thought was that perhaps she had misheard the king. Perhaps she misunderstood.
It was Marozia who spoke, before Liuprand could find his voice.
“But please, Your Majesty,” she said, “Agnes does not speak.”
The king guffawed. “What does she need to speak for? Many husbands would prefer their wives be silent. And there are better uses for a woman’s mouth.”
“Don’t,” Liuprand broke in. “I will not allow you another vulgar word.”
There were storm clouds on Liuprand’s face, and the fury in his voice was barely checked. But the king merely regarded his son with a bland sort of amusement.
“Is the truth a vulgar thing to you? A silent wife would appeal greatly to most men, and you know the reason why. Had your mother been silent—”
“Keep her name out of your mouth,” Liuprand said blackly.
Yet the king pressed on. “It has been decided, Liuprand. It is my royal decree. The Master of Blood has been alone since the death of his wife many years ago. He will be pleased and more than pleased to have a new woman to warm his bed.”
Still Agnes could not think. The words slipped in through the shell of her ear, but they could not sink themselves into her brain. Nicephorus looked down at her beneficently, as if he had bestowed upon her some great gift. So many idiotic details captured her focus: the way his yellowed teeth were wedged together in his mouth, like stones built upon stones; the way grease from breakfast painted a sheen on his chin. There was a sensation of standing at the edge of a very tall cliff, and she felt the height in the soles of her feet.
To her surprise, it was again Marozia who spoke.
“Your Majesty,” she said, in a tremulous voice. “I do not mean to question your wisdom, your judgment—but I fear that the Master of Blood may not think this an act of goodwill. My cousin is a lady of the House of Teeth, yes, though—forgive me—she is not otherwise a lady of great esteem. She has no title. The Master of Blood may feel you have merely sent him a hostage or a bedslave. Not a wife.”
And then, to her even more momentous surprise, the king fell silent. He leaned forward and rested his chin upon his steepled hands. Contemplation danced through his dull eyes.
“You speak sagely, Princess,” he said at last. “It is true: Your cousin has no title of her own. Though—did you not say that she is the elder?”
Marozia hesitated. Her gaze was uncertain. “By five days, Your Majesty. But her mother—”
“Then I do not see why she was passed over for the title Mistress of Teeth.”
Silence rose like a white-headed wave and drenched the throne room. Agnes heard Marozia’s breath catch again, yet this time, her hand went to her throat; to the necklace that circled it.
“That is not the way of our house,” Marozia managed. “My mother was the elder, and so I am the heiress. Adele-Blanche—”
“Is dead,” the king cut in. “Expired. Extinct. Forever gone. And now her blood has been woven inextricably with my own royal line. The strange ways of her house must die with her. You are the princess; you will birth the heir to Drepane’s throne, so should you not follow the customs of the land? The other houses will wish it so. Your subjects will wish it so. When you are queen.”
At that, Marozia could no longer speak. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, making no sound.
Nicephorus’s eyes flickered to Liuprand. “Do you not think this wise, my son?”
Liuprand’s teeth were gritted, and a muscle feathered in his tautly clenched jaw. His own eyes searched his father’s face, as if hoping he might find some chink in the armor. The king so rarely spoke with this cool, remote reasoning, and when confronted with it, Liuprand seemed to flounder.
“I think you should take care when suspending the traditions of Drepane’s noble houses,” he replied after a moment. “The other masters may not be so pleased to see such a precedent set.”
“Liuprand the Heedful. Always you seek the path of appeasement.But what is the purpose of being king, if not to set the laws of the kingdom and see that they are followed?”
For this, even Liuprand could not summon an argument. The fog of bewilderment around Agnes began to clear, and in its place rose a cold, choking mist of fear. She could not be married off. Adele-Blanche had forbidden it. The words writ upon her stomach were clear. She could seek no lustful pleasures; she could not share another’s bed. She was not Mistress of Teeth, but she was the secret heiress to Adele-Blanche’s hopes and dreams of power. This could not happen.
Yet she could not speak in order to stop it.
All Liuprand could respond was, “A king must still take care not to estrange himself from his powerful allies.” His voice was a murmur, and his gaze was no longer on his father. He was watching Agnes with a growing horror, his dark-blue eyes showing their immeasurable depths.
