058 – Flowers

Kiran Cousland was thirteen, painfully awkward in every way imaginable, and completely aware of his predicament, which just made everything worse. Perhaps he would be handsome, once he had finished growing, but at the moment he looked and felt like a patch of nettles in a garden of fragrant flowers; a useless tangle of drab colors and sharp edges.

It didn't help that Fergus, the hero of his younger days, had finally come home after almost a year sailing the Amaranthine Ocean, bearing new treaties and trade agreements. His big brother was just as handsome and talented and successful as Kiran remembered. He actually glowed, like he was constantly standing in a sunbeam. It was fucking ridiculous, and made Kiran feel more like a weed than ever. (Oriana shone with the same light. Despite the political necessity of their marriage, the newlyweds were clearly very happy together.)

All the noble families that owed their allegiance to the Teyrn of Highever had come to the castle for a week-long festival celebrating the match. The Arl of Amaranthine was in attendance, which wasn't odd in and of itself—Rendon Howe was a frequent visitor and close friend of the family. This time, however, he had brought his wife and children, none of whom Kiran had seen in years.

Nathaniel was sixteen, already broad and tall, with nary a spot in sight, the lucky bastard. Kiran had been training for battle his entire life, but when Nat had come at him with his fists, Kiran had tripped over his too-big feet and gotten punched in his (very spotty) face. Now he had a split lip, a swollen tongue, and a fucking lisp.

"I am not marrying Delilah Howe," he said to his mother, speaking slowly and taking great care with his enunciation. "She's bloodless as buttered toast, and she looks like a mouse in a dress, and she's never opened a book in her life." Kiran would have forgiven much from anyone who enjoyed Orlesian epic poetry and could read Arcanum. When he had mentioned his interest in both subjects to Delilah, she had laughed in his face and begun talking about the weather.

Eleanor Cousland folded her hands in her lap and regarded her son with a look of sorrowful disappointment. "Kiran, I am ashamed of you," she said in her soft, cultured voice.

The boy sullenly clenched his jaw and stared into his tea cup, a delicate, dainty thing no bigger than a blooming rose. It was made of polished silver, but part of him believed that if he gripped it too tightly it would shatter into a thousand small shards. Here, in his mother's private parlor with the carved chairs and the embroidered seat cushions and the heirloom tea service, he felt exquisitely uncomfortable.

She had probably done it on purpose.

"However incompatible you may be, that young woman—every young woman—is still deserving of your respect," Eleanor reminded Kiran, her eyes large and doleful. "I've failed as your mother if I haven't managed to teach you that much."

"No, Mother, it's not your fault, I'm thorry—I mean, sorry," Kiran said, apologizing quickly lest the weight of maternal displeasure crush him flat. "If I had a sister and Nat had insulted her honor, I would have thrashed him up one side of the yard and down the other. I'm not complaining. I deserved the blow. I just really don't want to marry Delilah Howe."

Eleanor sighed. "I will not pretend that I have not heard the rumors of a betrothal that have been floating around the castle all week, or that I do not know who is responsible for them."

Kiran scowled and opened his mouth to say something vile about Arlessa Howe—perhaps that she was a vicious, nagging harpy, as stupid and stubborn as a nanny goat—and then he remembered his mother's earlier warning and subsided. She gave him an approving nod.

"Regardless of the arlessa's campaigning, we are not looking to contract a marriage for you at this time."

"Thank the Maker!

"However," the teyrna continued as if he hadn't spoken, "Do not think that your tantrum had any effect on this decision. You will not be allowed to settle into an idle bachelorhood, and your bride will be selected for you by your father. You are a Cousland of Highever, and you have many responsibilities to your king and country. Making a good marriage is one of them."

Kiran wanted to protest, to quote some Orlesian romance about fair maidens and true love: the heart has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing, et cetera, et cetera. Except something rose up in his throat and stopped the words—an ineffable something that lived in his bones and moved in his veins and spoke with the voice of his ancestors.

"A Cousland always does their duty," he recited, grimacing as his the scab on his lip split open and spilled drops of blood into his teacup.