The door to Lord Burchard of Stone Mountain's study burst open to reveal his handsome blond son, who leaned lazily against the doorframe and eyed his father with distaste.

"You called?" he asked, quirking one eyebrow questioningly. His other eyebrow rose also when he spotted his mother wringing her hands on the lavender settee in the corner.

"I did," Burchard murmured gravely. His son frowned, and in a rare show of obedience took the chair he was offered. "Son," he continued, a little hoarse, "I have come across something of importance."

Squire Joren cocked his head, puzzled. What could be so dire that Lady Cheyenne would be in such a fit? "Is it harmful to our fief, Father?" he asked, putting on a worried façade.

"It warms me you would be so caring for Stone Mountain," he replied. His gaze darkened into a scowl. "Our reputation will be ruined, true, thanks to those damn merchants –"

"Hush, Burchard," Cheyenne snapped sharply, her hands pausing in their task as her eyes spit fire at her husband. "Ilane is my friend; you needn't shun her or her clan. And they weren't merchants, you know that."

"Yes, love," Burchard ground out. "Of course they weren't, love."

Hands folded demurely in his lap, one would not think Joren was fuming inside. But in that art of expression he was expertly skilled at schooling any facial reactions. One finger twitched irritably, itching to strangle the words out of his father's rambling mouth. Confound the old fool, he thought, irate.

"What is of such importance, Father?" Joren persisted, impatience evidence in his cool voice.

"Such a good boy, being patient for so long," he sighed, giving his son a rather sad, lopsided smile. He hurried on. "Just so you know, I was against this the whole time," he muttered, darting a glare at Cheyenne, who sniffed. "But the dowry was already paid for, and your mother was adamant in her ways…"

Dowry? Was that it? Was that what upset Burchard so much, the fact that Joren was already betrothed? The thought did not worry him in the slightest. If his intended woman was a hag (or even if she wasn't) he could always hire some pretty little servant girls for his amusement.

"Who is it?" Joren asked curiously.

"Did you remember my friend, Ilane?" Cheyenne said before Burchard even opened his mouth. He tilted his head, then shook it. No, he did not. "Oh. Well, we were good friends since we were five, when her brother had a crush on my sister. Anyway," she continued, spying her son's bored look, "she had had a baby some years ago, and we both thought it was such a good idea, so we betrothed you."

Joren was not listening at all. His mind was fixed on the name "Ilane". It did sound familiar, now that he thought about it. There used to be an Ilane of Maverly, but she died three or four years ago, and anyway, he was sure that was not who it was. She was a merchant, obviously, otherwise he would have heard of her. Unless she was recently promoted to a new title, that is. Although she could just be of the lower ranking nobles, a baron perhaps. Even though his own father was just a lord, the Stone Mountain fief thought of themselves as equals to dukes.

Actually, now that he thought of it, the ambassador – Piers, was it? – had a wife named Ilane, but their fief's name eluded him.

Wait a minute…

"What's her name?" Joren asked coldly.

Burchard gritted his teeth. "It's that little slut, Keladry of Mindelan."

"What?!"

"Yes," he hissed. "I'm sorry, son. I swear, I had no idea about this until it was too late. The dowry had been paid for and Cheyenne and Ilane's minds were made up."

"I don't want to marry that slut!" Joren burst out, leaping to his feet. In his haste, he toppled his chair, but he did not care. Every fiber of his being, his entire heart and soul, hated the Lump with a fiery passion that only the truly despicable could know.

"Joren," Cheyenne exclaimed, shocked. "She's a sweet, pretty little girl."

"No, she's not."

"Joren!" she scolded. "Behave!"

"Why?" he spat. "Mother, she's a big, fat, ugly ox."

Cheyenne swayed on her feet, placing a delicate white hand on her forehead as her eyes fluttered. Joren grimaced, battling a small wave of guilt. His mother had long ago gotten over a bout of harsh fever, but her health never did return.

"Apologize," Burchard ordered, striding forward swiftly to embrace his wife. She was the only thing that he ever snapped at his son about, the only thing he loved as much, possibly more, than him.

"I'm sorry," Joren mumbled, crossing his arms petulantly. "But, Mother, please…can't you do something?" He widened his eyes in a silent plea; it got her every time.

Almost every time.

"I'm sorry, Joren," Cheyenne sighed, brushing back strands of silver-streaked brown hair. "Ilane is my friend, and we had agreed on this long ago."

"Without my consent," her husband broke in angrily.

Cheyenne ignored him. She had done what she thought right. Personally, she did not think much of the match when it was made. It was the fact that she always did what Burchard wanted. To finally do something of her own – that was what she had done it for.

"Even if I didn't like the match I still would not break it. I would not want to be the one who broke the vow." She saw her son still looked livid and sighed. "Look, baby," she soothed, petting back his soft, wispy locks. He twitched. "I'm sorry. But I'm sure you'll find Lady Keladry sweet and loving, and you'll grow to love her over time."

Joren stepped back from his mother's embrace, fists clenched. His cheeks were flushed, splotches of angry red mottling his smooth skin from forehead to neck, long bow-shaped mouth set into a bared snarl. His eyes were the coldest blue his mother had ever seen, and she shivered, caught into their polar depths.

"I won't marry her, Mother, Father," Joren hissed, his words like whips across their faces as they flinched involuntarily. "You cannot make me."

"The dowry has been made, the plans have been started, and me and Ilane both support the idea," Cheyenne said softly. "Mindelan needs the money we have and Stone Mountain needs the favor they have."

For the sake of his wife, Burchard threw in his bit. "I can get the monarchs to quite literally drag you down the isle," he boasted, knowing damn well he had no such connections with the rulers of Tortall. "Marry her or you will forever shame this fief."

The words were like a door slamming on his cold heart. Any hope he had of scraping his way out of this one was lost forever and he was faced with the ugly truth: he was to be married to Squire Keladry of Mindelan.

-----

Baroness Ilane of Mindelan fluttered aimlessly around the study, her elegant face twisted in worry, despite dictating years of Yamani culture. She constantly bit her lip until it bled and did pointless activities such as moving a portrait hanging on the wall a little straighter, and then coming back five seconds later to rearrange it once more.

It was when Lady Squire Keladry of Mindelan peeked around the door, a small smile planted on her face, that Ilane let out an anguished squeak and turned away. Immediately Kel's expression clouded, a worrisome frown tugging at her lips. This was not her mother, not the strong woman she remembered.

"Mama?" she asked curiously, concerned for her mother's abnormally pale face. "What's wrong?"

Ilane sniffled.

"Oh, dear gods, Ilane," Piers said, his plentiful patience worn thin with his wife's nervous antics. "Just tell our daughter, or I will."

She sent him a reproachful scowl, adding to her daughter's distress. She turned to Kel, stepped forward, and placed two cool hands on both sides of her blank face.

"Keladry," she murmured, her blue eyes searching for something unknown in her daughter's long-lashed hazel ones. "I'm afraid I have something to tell you…something I should have told you awhile back."

Kel cocked her head, puzzled. What was bothering her mother so, that she would be so nervous? It could not be something too awful, for Papa simply looked irritated, not sad or angry or scared, although his sudden lack of patience did confuse her greatly.

"You see, a friend, who I have lost touch with over the years, and I were like sisters fourteen years ago. She has a son, two years older than you. We made a deal back then, and it concerns you and Cheyenne's boy."

Although she did not know exactly where this was going, Kel did not like it. One little bit.

"I did not want the union," Piers griped. "But it was too late – Ilane had already paid the dowry, although that could be reversed, and she was firm in the settlement."

"Dowry?" she asked softly, glancing pleadingly at her mother. Ilane's face emptied of emotions then set itself with an eye-sparking determination. Despite the circumstances, Kel found it comforting, more so than the hovering woman who had been standing there a mere five seconds ago.

"Cheyenne is a good mother, and she raised Joren well, for all that his father is –"

"Joren?"

Ilane nodded solemnly, her mouth closing with a snap. She knew of the hostility between her daughter and her intended, but never did she realize how terrible it was. The display of horror and disgust playing on her Keladry's face was evidence that the dislike she had for her handsome betrothed was strong enough to break through even her Yamani façade.

"As in, Joren of Stone Mountain?" The end of the sentence concluded with a squeak. Ilane, stoic and collected, cringed.

Oh, how it hurt to see her youngest child's distraught face close up like a clam, showing no emotions. To see that betrayed look in her suddenly bleak eyes. She had taken pride in the fact that she let her children have free rein for many things. The worst thing she had done was let Keladry believe that she had as much slack as her older siblings.

But it would make it worse for Ilane to break down over her lacking motherhood skills. Instead she needed to be strong, something for Keladry to lean on when she breaks. She was sure to break…she had to.

Yet Keladry did not break. She closed her eyes, regained her composure, and reopened them. Ilane admired her daughter's stability greatly. Why, the poor thing even managed a smile.

"Then I'll marry him," Kel sighed dully. "But I won't like it. At all."