“How does he get away with defying you?” Tarwain asked mildly.
Caris shivered at his tone.
“My daughter’s marriage would solidify my wealth,” Tarwain continued. “And yours, Your Majesty. A reward for my efforts on your behalf.”
Though Caris kept her eyes down, she managed to exchange a glance with Avice. Had there been a threat in those words?
“Both the King and I believe in rewards, Lord Marshal,” Satia said as they approached the doors to the garden.
“I am grateful to hear it.” Tarwain bowed over Satia’s hand as they paused before the doors. “I fear that I must leave you here, your majesty,” he said. “Until the council meeting?”
Satia graciously nodded and he walked off, boots ringing on the stone floor.
Avice and Nora opened the double doors to the garden. Cold air flowed in as Mira placed the fur cloak around Satia.
“It snowed,” Mira chirped. “But the gardeners stamped out a path. There’s a brazier for warmth, and hot bricks in your footstool, so you don’t take a chill.”
Satia made no comment, seemingly lost in her thoughts as she shrugged the cloak into place. Her head turned as she surveyed the garden. The noble ladies of the court were stationed about, looking fairly miserable. Caris wondered how long they had been waiting in the cold.
She caught a glimpse of Halithe on the far edge, with just a hint of a scowl on her face. Something tingled inside her and Caris looked away quickly before she was caught. Halithe would have something pithy to say about this later, she was sure.
They hadn’t had a moment together since their encounter in the chapel. Caris’s tingle grew stronger at the recollection of the intensity of the look they had shared.
A focused needle of anger and cold rage echoed in the Bond. Caris’s attention was brought back to the Bonded in an instant.
“Tea, of course, and crackers,” Mira continued, then hesitated, no doubt feeling the same prick of the needle. She glanced at the others as she tried to keep talking. “As the midwife directed…” her voice trailed off as the bond darkened.
The four women froze in place as Satia paused in the doorway.
Satia framed herselfin the doorway as she surveyed the snowy garden.
The noble ladies stirred. Heads turned in her direction and they all started to rise, faces white, cheek and noses red from the cold.
Satia didn’t bother to acknowledge their courtesies. She swept forward, striding to her cushioned chair, settling in with her furs, placing her feet on the warmed footstool.
The ladies fluttered about, offering praise for the furs and compliments on how she glowed. Her Bondmaidens finally settled the woman back to their sewing and Mira started to make tea.
Satia pondered.
They were going to have to start settling lands, titles, and rewards in order to keep their followers loyal. There were marriages to arrange, and also wardships, for the newly orphaned, wealthy children. And there was the not-so-small matter of Swift’s Port.
Satia sighed, trying not to feel put-upon. High Barons, minor lords, warriors: their impatience was almost as strong as their greed. Many hands grasping for what they deemed as their due.
The problem was that she wasn’t sure of anyone’s loyalty.
Xyrath’s approach of reward-them-and-then-kill-them-if-they betray-us wasn’t ideal.
Satia caught sight of Tarwain’s girl, wrestling with a simple hem. It made her grind her teeth, reminding her that Ritathan refused her commands, yet instructed that chit. She seethed with frustration and resentment, and there was little she could do—
Or was there?
Satia accepted a cup of tea from Mira and breathed in the scented steam. She closed her eyes and thought of possibilities.
Her Bondswomen went still around her, turning their heads to her like flowers to the sun, feeling the anticipation as they waited for instructions.
“It’s a risk,” Satia murmured to herself. “But there would also be advantages. There might be a cost…”
Oh, but it would make her feel so much better.
