“But unlike her, you do not have an attractive fortune as a dower,” Father continued.“Therefore we must use our political connections to get you a wealthy husband.With the Queen’s influence we can attract the right sort of marriage.”
Father paused in front of her and she felt the heat of his anger.
“Once the gossip about those damned lessons dies down, we can assess the possibilities.In the meantime, you will comport yourself as a fine young lady of noble blood should.You will—”
Tarwain’s lecture continued, bringing old, oh-so-familiar, pain.Halithe didn’t sigh, didn’t shift in her seat, didn’t show her resentment, just settled in for the duration as he paced, hurling barbed words at her.
The chapel bells started to ring and she seized the excuse.She rose, cutting off his tirade.
“We are to gather in the Chapel,” she reminded him.“To recite prayers for the health of the Queen and the pending birth of her child.”
“Again?”Father huffed.
“Yes, Father,” Halithe reminded him, trying not to keep her resentment out of her voice.“Much rides on the birth of a healthy heir.”
“True,” he snorted, and waved her away.
Halithe curtsied, as fine young ladies of noble blood do, and left their chambers quietly.Down the hall, and the stairs, quiet and reserved, as was proper.Head down, demure and modest.
Ritathan had not walked that way.He’d glided smoothly and quietly, head high, no boots ringing on stone.Just quiet assurance, an aura of power, and maybe the smallest clink of his chains.As if to say, “I can kill you in an instant.”
She’d loved that.
Halithe paused and consciously lifted her head and put her shoulders back.She might not have her master’s height or his power, but her slippered feet were quiet on the floor and she could try.She slowed her steps, trying to look mysterious and regal.Or at the very least, confident.
A flash of fear struck even as she walked.She was desperate not to lose the small amount of knowledge she had gained from his teachings.Yet even as she despaired, memory came clear.
“Perceive.”He spoke that single word and a tingle of power ran through her.
The world had shifted.
Ritathan nodded in sympathy.“You must learn to invoke this for yourself, and you have my permission to do so.You must focus, concentrate on summoning it and controlling it.”His mouth quirked.“Perhaps while you are at your sewing.”
She’d laughed at the time.He’d known her hatred of sewing, hemming endless nappies for the expected royal babe under the watchful eye of the pregnant Queen.
Her grief rose again and she stepped into one of the curtained alcoves, pressed herself to the wall, and drew a ragged breath.All her hopes and dreams for the future.
And not just hers.
Caris, the Queen’s Bondmaiden, beautiful, lovely, intoxicating Caris, enslaved at birth.
Halithe burned in anguish and shame.She pressed her chest, feeling her keepsake, the handkerchief she had wrapped around one precious strand of Caris’s hair.She’d told Caris to hope, to dream, that she would find a way to break that Bond and now—
They would remove the bracelet, and she’d be denied any further teaching.Any who practiced magic outside of the Guild were hunted down and killed.
She could flee, but she’d no real skill, no funds of her own.She’d been raised to be an ornament, and had failed miserably at that so far, according to everyone around her.
The lump in her chest grew as heavy as lead, pressing her down.She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see any way out of the life planned for her.
The chapel bells brought her back to the moment.Halithe wiped her face and blotted her tears on her sleeve.If she wasn’t in the chapel, her father would learn of it, the Queen would know of it, and there would be consequences.She put her head back against the wall, then straightened, pushed aside the curtain and made herself start walking.
One of the servants coming down the opposite way gave her a startled look as she appeared, then stepped back with a bow.
Halithe walked on.
The entrance tothe chapel was crowded, as usual, ladies all waiting patiently and properly for their names to be called.“They say that the Matriarch herself will lead this service,” someone whispered, which led to a rustle of skirts and glances down the hall behind them.
Halithe resigned herself to the delay.A fine young lady of noble blood would be patient, still, and composed while waiting.Halithe was going to die of boredom, but—
