Chapter 3
"A Storm Brewing"
"We've received word Umbria stations troops along the western bank of the Albula River," Nereus explained while tracing his finger along the faded map stretched across Aeneas' table. "I believe they're working their way toward Port Sanna where they hope to overthrow our forces and instill themselves."
"It's a far reach for Scipio to dare into western territory," the Alban King observed, but the creasing of his handsome features suggested the notion could not be so easily dissolved from his thoughts.
"He won't be able to hold onto the port," Ariston added with a heavy shrug. "Let him attempt it. We have the foresight now to send our forces to bolster Sanna."
"It does seem that simple, brother," Nereus said narrowing his sharp blue eyes and stubbed his finger purposefully on the city in question, "but it is not. I doubt Scipio attacks without any foresight. He knows he won't be able to hold onto Sanna. That isn't the point."
"Then what is?" Aeneas pressed, still focusing on the port they so narrowly held in their grasps. It was one of the few strongholds Alba Longa had secured that provided fruitful trade to bolster their treasury and their own supplies while adding incentive for the formation of alliances with more inland regions. If they lost hold of it, they would find themselves cut off from those benefits and vulnerable to betrayal.
"He only needs to hold the port for a month perhaps two –enough time for him to sack our supplies and intercept any shipments arriving from our allies." The Prince applied the bulk of his pressure upon his finger, making the tip turn white where it erased the city on the map from the other men's views. "That alone would make this strategy worth attempting. Umbria would be richer, and we poorer."
"Again," Ariston spoke up with a harsher air, "we can cease their attack before they travel far enough west to attempt it. Let us ride to meet them and send them running for their lands once more!"
"Again, little brother," Nereus nearly growled through his teeth, spinning his fierce blue eyes on his sibling, "it is not that simple. The Sabines and Umbria were allied before we arrived on these shores. Yes, the Sabine King Varro has shown no concern with our growth so long as we have remained west and south of his territory, but simply because we have not given him a reason to attack us does not mean he won't rise to the call of his allies."
With this abrupt announcement, the Prince managed to silence his brother and father alike, and he searched the tense stillness, knowing he could have handled his delivery more delicately. But it was too late to suck the venomous words from the air. The possibility roughed each man's nerves, and in that their mutual speechlessness was ripe with anxiety.
Nereus could bear it no more and added brusquely, uncertainly, agitatedly, "It is what I would do."
"Scipio is not so clever," Aeneas commented at last and both sons considered their father, expecting the infinite stretch of his wisdom to reach out and smooth this situation, but the King's face was vacant as he gazed at the map, "but even blind men may stumble upon the right path."
"We can't divide our troops between Sanna and our eastern borders," the youngest Alban Prince added, feigning a strong face which only made his anxiety the more evident. "Their numbers will be too small to stop either attack. We have to choose."
"What choice?" muttered Nereus beneath his breath, but in the imminent silence, it was heard by all in attendance. He promptly gathered his stature and attempted to ease the tension he had cultivated. "I have no evidence to support my theory. Scipio's never shown this amount of strategy in our previous encounters. There's no reason to believe he will be more intelligent this time. Perhaps he has no intention of rallying the Sabines tribe."
Ariston and Aeneas granted him the same potent look, ripe with disbelief and annoyance to be provoked and then calmed, and Nereus shook his head to find himself planted between two opposing theories with no ideal answer to either. "The only thing we know is that Scipio and his men are moving west along the Albula River," he pointed out. "That should be our most immediate concern."
Ariston did not miss the chance to preach a final time, "Let us send troops to Sanna!"
The King's chair groaned as its inhabitant shifted his weight across one arm, and Aeneas' expression was one of placidity in place of anxiety. "We're agreed," he stated and nodded stiffly. "Send supplies to Sanna. They should prepare for a siege. We'll send troops to halt Umbria's advance and concentrate our attack there, but we will keep our eyes on our borders. If Varro moves, we will deal with it."
His tone was final, and Ariston was only too eager to leave the room and begin executing their father's orders. Nereus lingered watching Aeneas rise from his seat and stretch his old bones and gave the King time before he admitted, "We should call for Haemon and Ascanius. This requires a more thoughtful approach than Ariston's bravado."
"We haven't received word yet from either of your brothers."
"No, we haven't."
"Then we have no knowledge of affairs in Apulia." Aeneas placed a hand on his son's shoulder and guided them to the door, pausing at its threshold to finish this exchange. "Haemon and Ascanius are precisely where we need them, Nereus. If your intuitions are proven, we'll need allies to provide us men and weapons… We can't afford to end negotiations with Apulia."
Nereus searched his father's eyes while he found the wisdom in his words and placed his hand upon the King's shoulder. "Tonight I will pray for Haemon… and his wife."
Aeneas gripped more firmly and smiled through his fatigue. "As will I."
‡‡‡
The rain smothered the life from the city, making even the flourish of green leaves hang listlessly and wasting away the vibrancy of their color as they adopted the sheen of grey sleet from the onslaught. Against its hazy halo, the city peeked through the thin veil where it was caught between the dense forests and the palace in its center. Pedestrians retired to the warmth and dryness of their homes so that the muddy streets were occupied only by the pits turned to small pools of water, and silence underlined the lull of rain falling onto the streets and roofs and woods. Barion was haunting in its vacancy this morning, yet Aurora stared into its face, knowing well the blurred lines of houses stretching out beneath her window seat. Pillows were piled under her, a mask of comfort to her stone prison, but even their material was damp and cold from the rain daring to fall inside the window. She drew her robe closer around her, feeling the soft fur of its collar brush her numb cheeks, and continued to gaze across the view at once surveying and mesmerized. The fire crackled behind her where Desma had drawn her stool close and sat tending to her weaving to occupy her nervous hands and clamor of a mind, but as Aurora glanced into the confines of her room, she found her handmaiden's chin upon her chest with her hands stiffly balled around the thread in her lap and her eyelashes fluttering in agitated sleep. For a moment, her mistress observed her, knowing she had been seduced to sleep by the lullaby of rain but finding it pitiful how the young woman's plaguing anxiety could not be soothed by even rest. It was testament to the power of this palace within whose colorless walls they were each haunted by their own demons.
Her lungs were coated with the rain lingering in the air, and its pervasive chill shuddered through her, making her take refuge deeper into the pillows and her own robe. As her mismatched eyes swept out, tossing the net of her attention through the window once more, she discovered a sole figure wrapped tightly in a black cloak daring to brave the sheets of rain. By the height and bulky shoulders, she could assume it was a man as he charged through the puddles and muddy roads to his destination without the faintest inkling about the woman keeping watch above him. He disappeared behind the corner of a home where the angle hid him from her sight, and she idly watched to see if this phantom might reappear. As she waited, staring at that lonely corner, she envisioned days spent in this seat when the sun beckoned the peasants out to handle their work. She could admire their perfectly imperfect order, bustling through the streets, barking out commands and salutations and insults, and fighting for every ounce of life they drew. Times had left each man suspicious of his neighbor and greedy of the riches he possessed almost baring his teeth like a territorial dog toward any who would tread too near. Desperation dehumanized those sorrowful peasants who provided the action to an unwitting play for the Princess sitting upon her pillows and clinging at her expensive robes. The same Princess prevailed in town gossip ever since the peasants laid their horrified eyes on the little girl Atlan emerged from the forest with whose blood stained feet, soiled clothes, and ghastly pale complexion haunted all. Fear fed the tales of her family's murder, her role in that night, the subsequent days she spent lost in the forest, and the curses that followed her and would spread to any who so much as looked at her.
Ironically, it only made her a more curious commodity, and they were eager to throw their eyes upon her like they expected her to emerge from the palace as some manner of witch, terrifying and omnipotent, and were disappointed to discover a mere mortal. Still, their hushed words were inescapable –even the servants fell victim to them. They averted their eyes when she approached and peeked through their lashes after her, then running to tell another of the Princess' gait and expression and the chill wind that followed her. "The touch of the Keres," the other would soon condemn and mind the servant to be careful of attracting their attentions. At times they grew bored of the tales and weaved them into something more creative. For a while they charged that she had not been touched by the spirits of death –nay, her spirit had half-torn from her body, making her part Keres and part human. "Why else would she have the eyes of a she-wolf?" they would say, bolstering their accusation with some tale from a nameless source who claimed her eyes gazed upon him and he felt they called for his soul. None disbarred these allegations. Fear was too contagious and sly a disease to avoid, filling the cracks wrought by poverty and hunger. So their empty tongues busied with a tired tale, and Aurora grew more recluse, only making the voices bolder when she bowed away. For as mighty and fierce as they shaped her, their orphaned Princess was vulnerable to their slander and frightened by their attention.
The parchment felt brittle and sticky in her hands as she drew her knees closer, feeling the needles prick at her legs where they were falling asleep, and she feared crushing the paper against her chest but could not set it aside yet. Her father's words weaved through the veins of her mind, slow and persistent even as the rain distracted her. Its lullaby was seductive, and she stifled a yawn behind her palm and was forced to recognize the dreams, the sleepless nights, the pressure… She sunk lower, almost collapsing in on herself to fit against the unyielding wall, and desired nothing more than a break to her task. Only the truth would ease her restless soul, and in that moment, the exhaustion was so extreme that her muscles seemed to melt from her, making her so weak and fragile that even a stray drop of rain landing on her arm felt dangerous to her glass spirit.
Gazing upon the aged parchment and the ink seeping into the page to disappear with time, the last of her father's voice to be silenced forever, she felt impotent. What retribution awaited her family when she would never be worthy of her father's legacy? Why did her brother not stand in her place? He had always been the braver of the two –sending her away into the woods while he, still a child himself, faced the men chasing them. She was responsible for surviving, and that weight would follow her to the River Styx. Now, this Alban Prince threatened to steal her away from everything that she knew, making a mockery of her inadequacy with his blatant disregard for it. There was a time she would have been given to a prince, but that obligation died with her father. And so she dedicated herself to the sole task worthy of her attention and her consideration…
"You knew," she whispered and stared deeper into the fading words. "Why could you not say it?"
There was no answer. Only the sounds of the rain and the crackling fire and the riddles of Lycaon's inconsistent notes…
"Too much is said, and too much is heard. Ever the eyes are on me awaiting the chance to strike."
She had read the line for fifteen years, and it gave her no direction. Her father was the Crown Prince. Daily he was surrounded by servants, councilmen, aids, and guards, and that was only within the limitations of his home. Beyond those walls, he encountered so many more. It was impossible to weed through their ranks and part the loyal from the treacherous. But her father knew his attackers –that much was clear from his notes, and consequently, she must have known who they were.
She drew her finger across the script, imaging what her father had thought while writing these words. Her attention was constantly drawn to "the eyes." Whose eyes? The events of that night were scattered in her memory, disjunctive and limited by what her childish mind could understand, and she could not recall the men's faces to examine with a mature eye.
"But you knew them," she groaned to herself, and her fingers flexed impatient with the desire to throw aside this shroud of mystery and shed light on that dark night.
The eyes.
So near surrender for the umpteenth time, the two words struck a chord, and she faced this abrupt revelation almost suspicious of its appearance after all these years. Then at once she was on her feet, the parchment neglected to the window seat behind her, and Desma startled out of her seat when she felt Aurora brush past her. The Princess hurried from her chambers without acknowledging her handmaiden's nervous calls flung after her.
"My Lady," Desma said as she scurried after her mistress into the corridor and tried to blink the sleep from her eyes, "the King has expressed his desire that you remain within the palace. It is so dreary outside… He fears you will fall ill."
Still mute, Aurora weaved through the corners and passages toward her uncle's quarters with a sole intent to guide her swift pace.
Desma seemed to realize their path and rushed closer to the Princess. "My Lady, if you wish an audience with the King, I can arrange one, but it would be most impudent to seek his counsel unannounced. His Highness is so preoccupied-"
Her timid speech was abruptly silenced as they entered the passage to the King's chambers where the door was guarded by two men. They straightened to full attention upon seeing her approach, and one man expressed in a gruff voice, "The King speaks to Lord Galen now, My Lady."
"Give me your hand," Aurora demanded, and the guard's eyes darted toward the Princess, alarmed and confused.
"My Lady?"
"Your hand," she growled, leaving him no space to question her authority, and he reluctantly released his spear to offer his left hand. "The other!" With the obedience of a soldier, he extended his right hand, and she grasped onto his swollen fingers nearly wrenching them from their sockets so that she could see the ring on his forefinger. It fit so snuggly the flesh would require cutting to release the gold ring, but his predecessor had likely been a more slender man. Its face was embossed with the mark of the King's personal guards: meant to symbolize the guards' constant presence protecting and surrounding the King, an ellipse encapsulating a small circle. As she stared at it so intently and so furiously, she knew without the slightest of doubt that the emblem bore a striking resemblance to what her father had suspected. It had been in front of her all along.
‡‡‡
"There has been new information to suggest what we suspected before journeying to Barion. Ascanius and I continue to seek out answers and delay any commitment on our part. I hope that within the week I will be able to send you a letter with my final decision," Haemon dictated in a slow, even tone as he paced before the table where the scribe committed each word to parchment. His chestnut eyes traced the stone floor piled with heavy rugs, rich burgundys with black and gold patterns, and his mind followed their lines to a worn concern, then falling from his lips, "What news of Umbria? We've heard nothing the north… I can only hope that means peace for Alba Longa and that our soldiers have not been forced onto the battlefield again-"
The bronze hinges groaned loudly as his chamber doors opened, yielding to Ascanius and Solon, the latter of which looked utterly perturbed, and the Prince needed only one guess as to why. Their presence was an exacerbation of this foul situation, becoming more a nuisance to him with each day they delayed ending the engagement. He saw no purpose to it when it was so evident to him that this woman was not made to rule a country. Her substance was not that of a future queen to stand at his side, bolster his outlook, and give him an heir. The woman could scarcely look him in the eye.
Haemon turned to the scribe once more and ended, "I will send word soon, and I pray for peace in our lands during my absence." The scribe's quill quivered in the air as he scratched away at the parchment and then nodded firmly to show he had finished. The Prince looked to the ambassador and his brother even as he instructed, "Have a messenger sent to Alba Longa at once." The scribe began gathering his things, distracting Haemon's tired mind, but he wondered, "What is it now?"
"Savas is growing impatient," Solon answered as though the answer had been sitting on the edge of his tongue ready to leap into the air at the slightest prompting. "It is an insult to house you within his palace, feed you, and tend to your needs while you make no effort to acknowledge this engagement."
"Is our presence not acknowledgment enough for the King?" he countered incredulously.
"No." Solon's features shuddered as though a wave of irritation simmered beneath his skin, and he explained, "He has not seen you take any interest in his niece."
Haemon's gaze turned his brother, thinking Ascanius capable of deciphering this ridiculous accusation, but the Prince reluctantly admitted, "We have sought to reveal her true identity, and we have neglected to play along with the King's game."
He exhaled gruffly through his nostrils like an agitated animal and released the arms crossed over his chest to sit stiffly at his sides. "I thought we were agreed to delay the engagement until we had more evidence."
"We are," Ascanius assented though Solon kept his answer to himself, responding more through his silence as to his thoughts on the situation.
"And now you come to me advising me to show an interest in the woman?" He clarified with a frown growing into the lines of his features, amazed he was the only to see a fault between the two competing plans of action.
"We don't expect you to pursue her," Ascanius continued. Still, the ambassador remained silent, his sharp tongue dulled by things that could not be spoken, though his eyes pulsed from his head, pressing against his skull by the ever present head ache this affair had given him.
"I've tried speaking with her," the man countered. "She's little more than a mute."
Here, Ascanius and Solon glimpsed at each other, sharing a look that referenced a conversation they had held before seeking Haemon's audience, and the Prince had a sinking sensation that this exchange was a mere formality. He had no real contribution to whatever they had planned, and his aggravation brewed in the base of his mind, subtly darkening his eyes as they stared at the two men.
Ascanius turned to his brother, recognizing the hardened expression, and he suggested calmly, "Send her a gift."
"And that will please Savas to imagine I'm courting his niece?"
"Yes," Solon responded flatly, both men now giving Haemon the same look of finality.
"Fine," he muttered to dismiss them and turned away. "Send her something."
"Jewelry would be appropriate for the Princess, My Lord," Solon suggested. His flattery made a full recovery now that he had accomplished his purpose and could continue weaving this engagement to his liking and the benefit of his political career.
Haemon found his cup of wine and gruffly said, "Then send her jewelry."
"A wise choice," Solon agreed and bowed his head to hide his smile. "If you will excuse me, My Lords, I will see to finding something worthy of the Princess' fairness. I'd think Prince Haemon would like it reach her before the evening given the time that has already been wasted-"
"Go," Ascanius interrupted for his brother who had receded deeper into his chambers and watched the tension building in his tall stature. Solon, for once, retreated without requiring the final word and left the two men to the silence of the Crown Prince's chambers.
The elder man left his brother's lingering presence unacknowledged, but Ascanius brushed aside the insult. "This isn't a battle, Haemon," he spoke up but was purposeful to keep his distance. "If this isn't what you want, we can return home."
He smirked at the notion, turning then to look at Ascanius' face as though he anticipated a jovial smile and not the man's earnest expression. "No, we'll return when the job is done."
"You consider your marriage a job?"
"I consider it an opportunity to better our standing and ease our people's fears." It sounded like a recitation meant to deflect any real obligation from him, but his eyes were too honest.
Ascanius hesitated facing the notion that this truly meant nothing to his brother but challenged his resoluteness with a single question, "Then why not marry her?" He extended his open palms and pressed, "If that is the only reason we've come here, why the charade? Why the investigation? Why not bring Alba Longa a princess and be done with it?"
Swirling the cup in his hand, his eyes fell to the dark liquid brimming inside, and he dryly replied, "I like the wine."
"Don't be an ass."
"I'm building a future for our people," Haemon challenged to such an allegation. "That is the only way that we will survive. I could marry an Alban woman, but what advantage would that give us?"
"You are more than a political tool, Haemon. You don't need to sacrifice your future for our lands. No one has asked that of you."
"No one needs to. This is my decision. When Aeneas dies, I will lead, brother, and so I must act like a king." He surveyed his brother, seeming to hold the insult before he finally delivered it, "Ariston would do well to follow suit and put Alba Longa's needs above his own."
Since Nereus and I did not, Ascanius understood the implication and rose to meet it. "This has nothing to do with the Princess or Alba Longa's future!" Ascanius charged suddenly, aggravated to be mocked when he was trying to be sincere. "This is about Hector. You can't stand the thought of following in his steps. He denied a princess and so you take the first one offered to you. That does not make you wiser, brother. You still sacrifice your life for your people. You've only chosen it much sooner than your father did."
His eyes were two onyx stones as hard and dark staring at his brother and killing the words in Ascanius' throat. The fist on his cup threatening the break the bronze mold while the muscles around him settled into place making him so still and rigid the edges of his silhouette seemed cut from the space. Yet his voice was deceivingly calm as he commanded, "Leave."
For a moment, Ascanius grappled with the ground he had gained from his sudden attack. He was sure he could push further, but wiser senses prevailed making him retreat while he was still in the lead. Before he reached the door though, he found himself turning to find his brother in the same state. The short steps were swift to cool his tongue, and he offered, "You don't have to marry her."
"Get out of my sight," he snapped, proving himself still furious even as Ascanius' anger simmered away to pity.
His brother didn't have the heart to say anything else and left the man to his destruction.
‡‡‡
Eione drew Chara into her arms, smothering her full cheeks with kisses, and the little girl erupted into contagious giggles which only prompted her mother more. Her legs kicked, and her arms swung blindly with balled fists while Eione tickled at her sides.
Iliana laughed from the table where she nursed a fresh cup of water and warned, "Don't torture her, Eione!"
"Oh, she loves kisses from her mother," the woman assured her, swaying slightly with her daughter on her hip, and tucked Chara's blonde curls behind her ear. "And she's happy her aunt came. She's been sad without her father around to dote on her."
Iliana smiled sweetly and took her niece from Eione's arms. "I'm sure. Who else could she order about?"
"You would be surprised…" Eione murmured and tidied about the space while she had a rare moment with her hands free. Even in performing such a menial task, the woman had grace about her like a dancer with pointed wrists and a light gait. It was a characteristic which entranced the Alban men and made her a constant subject of women's gossip. Through the square, she would walk with perfect posture and her hips sashaying beneath the folds of her dress while her fair face turned boldly toward any that would look upon her. There was a magic to the manner in which she presented herself, slightly dipping her chin so that her feline eyes peered out from her face, and she enchanted or alienated all who met her. As testament to her beauty, she caught Ascanius' eye when she was only sixteen and had evaded his advances for the better of a year, making him court her in all manner of ways until she seemed bewitched herself. Now married with a beautiful baby girl, their romance was exemplary in Iliana's eyes. She often considered the pair when she faced her own solitude and searched for the secret to their happiness so that she might imitate it.
Chara tugged on a fistful of Iliana's dress, and her chestnut eyes fell to her niece, finding the little girl perturbed to be ignored. Smiling, she bounced the babe on her knees and bent to kiss her soft curls.
"Yes, she is very happy to have her aunt here!" Eione chirped as she sat down at last and gave her sister-in-law the full attention of her chocolate eyes.
"I was worried you two might be lonely without Ascanius."
"Of course," she agreed, "but sometimes it is good to miss him." To Iliana's perplexed expression, she smiled omnisciently. "You'll see when you have husband."
Iliana bowed her head once more to watch Chara chew happily on her fingers but had nothing to say on the matter, other than the milieu of thoughts she held on it, but it seemed too brash to spill her soul to Eione within moments of arriving inside the door –even if that had been her private purpose.
"Aeneas' birthday is around the corner!" Eione remembered and busied her hands with a morsel of stale bread. "I'd nearly forgotten. Have you begun planning?"
"Somewhat. We've been a bit preoccupied what with Umbria and the soldiers recovering from battle, but I think it will be a time for everyone to forget their worries if only for a night."
"Yes," she said and hurriedly swallowed to clear her throat. "There should be wine and a feast and music and decorations and dancing!" She flashed an excited grin and bent forward in her seat. "We all love our King. He deserves a festival –a celebration of his life!"
"He pretends he has no need for a celebration," Iliana divulged with a timid smile, "but it is all a charade. He would love nothing more."
"And he will have one to remember. Sera and I could help you cook, and we must speak with Iamus. He roasts the most spectacular pork you have ever tasted!" Her words flowed over Iliana in a steady stream until she could not make heads or tails of her sister's feverish ideas, almost being charged like orders upon the air. It was only when a certain name was spoken did her head bob up. "And Damian! Let us speak with him. Perhaps he could forge something exceptional. I'll admit I've been nursing this idea for Ascanius more than his father, but I think Aeneas is certainly deserving." Eione touched her lips as though blessing them before she shared her brilliance. "Envision a blade fit for a king, beautiful and magnificent, and on it we will engrave…" She drew a slow breath with her eyes scanning the air, but Iliana could not decide whether it was for effect or if Eione was searching for the words in that moment. Her captivating charade was abandoned all at once as the woman abruptly sunk into her seat and looked about the room with a frown to her fair brow. Sensing Iliana's confusion, she muttered demurely, "I'm sure I've taken note of it somewhere. It was artistry really… So perfect…"
She was on her feet to search out her poetic engraving even as Iliana assured her, "It is a wonderful thought, Eione, but I doubt Damian will have the time for such a thing. Father has him working on new weapons and armor for the soldiers."
"Oh I'm certain he can find the time for a present for his King," and Eione spun on her heel with her feline eyes flashing mischievously, "and if you ask…"
Iliana's cheeks warmed before she had the sense to withhold her flush, and so she hid her embarrassed features by looking to her niece yet again. It was always a mortifying reminder of how long this silent affair had gone on that others were aware of it as well. She feared it was only a matter of time before her brothers and father caught wind of it, and then they would forbid her from speaking to him before she ever had the chance to even do anything worthy of their scorn.
"Won't you Iliana?" Eione pressed as she sat down at the table and took her sister's hand.
"You should," Iliana assured her and smiled faintly. "You know men never say no to you."
"I'm a wife and a mother now," Eione commented to dismiss herself based on the immorality and was apparently oblivious to her own arrogance on the subject. Only upon further reflected did she hastily add, "And I know how you find him handsome. It's the perfect excuse to speak with him."
The younger woman shrugged listlessly and helped Chara climb onto her chest where the babe fought in her aunt's arms with restless anger. "If I have the courage to utter a word to him…"
"Bring some of that soup you make for your father," Eione encouraged while taking Chara away, and the little girl burst into tears without warning. "He'll be smitten," Eione promised over her daughter's squeals and reached for a bowl of mashed fruit in the center of the table. Though her face was still flushed with her cries, Chara was quick to quiet herself as she begun munching on the sweet fruit, and Iliana smiled and cleaned a stray piece away from her chubby cheek.
With all attentions focused on the babe, Iliana assumed the conversation finished until Eione's weary face considered her and appealed, "Won't you try for your father at least? It would please him so much."
And so her sister-in-law preyed on her fault: her inability to say that two-letter word to any request that might displease someone she cared about. Still smiling however falsely, Iliana nodded and tried not to imagine the effects of what she had just committed to.
‡‡‡
It was only when night broke across the sky and darkened the lands did the rain pause as if content to cease its siege now that the Apulians were confined by the onslaught of night and would not dare to leave their quarters. Still the heavens rumbled and flickered with the threat, no doubt to be resumed soon for the clouds were full and densely hid away the moon, and the air was cold and damp making the Apulians draw about their robes and worry over sickness so early in the season. For this reason, the servants had uncovered the Princess' heavier robes and allowed a few to air out during the day so that she might wear one tonight at dinner. Maybe they thought the denser fabrics would warm her chill mood, but she had barely the consciousness of mind to note the deep evergreen shade of fabric wrapped around her let alone spare a rare smile. The events of the day had heightened her peculiar nature until she seemed oblivious to all –even Cybele adjusting her favorite gown. It was so if only for the way it illuminated her features, evening her pale complexion, highlighting the tawny brown shades to her blonde hair, and most evident, providing a backdrop against which to study the different hues of her eyes. She loved this gown for while others might be more stylish and able to convey the desirable aspects about her –perhaps making her appear tanned or blonder- this one made her feel the most like herself, and it was unique for her to find beauty in her individuality.
"Princess," Desma said to catch her mistress' attention, and appropriately, Aurora turned to face the woman who offered a folded piece of fabric from her shaking hands. "This has arrived for you."
She accepted it, feeling a weight in its center that only confused her more, while she wondered distantly, "Who is it from?"
"Prince Haemon," Desma answered with her voice hitting a peak of feminine excitement that Aurora should have shared, but the Princess was too stunned to feel much of anything.
Her gaze turned uncertainly to her handmaiden, but Desma was fully enraptured in the mysterious gift in Aurora's palm. Pretending not to feel the shroud of all the servants' attentions on her, Aurora unwrapped the gift one delicate leaf of fabric at a time with each layer building the anticipation in the room until perfect stillness was achieved and the present was revealed. Two golden blossoms caught the candlelight and faced her where their delicately arching lips opened to strands of golden beads, interrupted at their ends by three glistening, swollen, beautiful pearls. There was a collective gasp amongst the women close enough to the Princess to see the gift with their own eyes, and whispers shattered the dense silence as the servants promptly described the earrings to those beside them or perhaps commented on the bizarre fact that the receiver had yet to say anything.
Never one seduced by opulent jewelry, Aurora found herself enraptured in its simple beauty so austere and so magnificent. No man had ever given her anything aside from her cousins and her uncle, but nothing with the intent to chase her heart. And how it betrayed her, beating erratically in her chest as though the Prince himself had arrived and handed it to her, but he had no need. She was as speechless without him to steal the remainder of her courage.
When her lips finally parted numb from their position flattened in a line, it was to ask, "Was there a message?"
"No, My Lady," Desma answered and wrung uneasily at her kerchief, undoubtedly fretting that she had neglected to ask. "Lord Solon delivered it. Perhaps he meant to say something-"
"I'm sure if he meant to say something, he would have," Aurora commented curtly and handed the earrings to her handmaiden once more. How could this man whose gaze looked so roughly upon her at once charm and repulse her? Her eyelashes fluttered uncertainly, and she turned to her reflection in the mirror, finding her unusual eyes and seeing the fascination in them. She promptly closed them to banish the disloyal thoughts from her mind. She had no time to be wooed –least of all by him.
"They suit you perfectly," Desma commented, and when Aurora dared to find her reflection again, she saw her handmaiden dangling one of the beautiful pieces beside her face to compare. Her hair seemed a bit more golden with the metal beside it and her skin the more lustrous to match the pearls. Aurora pushed Desma's hand away before she thought any more of it. It was dangerous to pretend he thought of her beyond the title attached to her name and the vessel she could be for his heir for that was all she could offer him.
"You know I have no taste for jewelry," she muttered.
Her handmaiden appeared perplexed while she stared at the Princess through the mirror. "It is a gift," she said slowly as though spelling out the words might impact her mistress in any way.
"I'm aware of that, Desma."
"It would be an insult to the Prince not to wear them…" she added with the anxiety creeping into her quivering tone as she noticed more and more Aurora's persistence not to acknowledge the earrings.
"If he is so petty," Aurora said and feigned a strength that was fleeing her as she spoke, "I have no need for his gifts." The women around her were stiff, bearing witness to their Princess' rude tongue and brash decision. Their accusing eyes unnerved her and yet spurred her to continue, and she swiftly decided, "I'd like my hair up tonight."
Desma tucked her kerchief into her dress and stepped forward uncertainly. "You're sure, My Lady?"
"Yes. I want to show my neck. The Queen has always commented it is a pretty one…"
When she entered the dining hall later in the evening, her hair swept away from her to reveal the line of her neck, her jaw, and most purposefully her bare ears. She intended to convey her own silent message to the Prince: to leave her be. She had no use for his expensive jewels; she had no use for his courtship; and most of all she had no use for him. She could see his crown of chestnut curls peeking above the crowd given his tall stature, and even facing the wall of his back her courage seeped through her feet and into the floor. Her heart was a hammer in her chest, and for the faintest second, she considered turning to Desma who had hidden the earrings in her kerchief with the vain hope her mistress would need them during the night. But it was too late. People began to take notice of her arrival, and even if she stood in place without daring to approach him, it would not be long before he heard she had come. With the inevitability to bolster her, she decided to pretend the decision was still in her control when her feet guided her through the crowd of her adopted family, councilmen, and prestigious officials. Their gazes turned to acknowledge her progress, but her own was latched onto his back fearing he would sense her and turn before she finished her approach and spoil the surprise.
What surprise? her mind hissed at her as though a parent scolding a sullen child. That you are dismissing the sole man who has shown interest in you –who could be a good man –who could steal you away from these dead walls? She balled her hands to still their shaking and held her head higher while her restless thoughts decided, The only surprise is you!
"Princess," his brother discovered her first, and she was startled by his salutation given her inner dialogue and guilty fixation on Haemon who turned as well to see her. She had been distracted to the point that she felt herself more ambushed than them, somehow managing to spin this entire situation around on herself, and she felt her face flushing as she looked from Prince Ascanius to Ambassador Solon and finally to him. Each man bridled his distaste finding the insult readily available in her appearance, and she had not been prepared to see how his eyes hardened into a permanent scowl that was as anchored in her as hers had been in him moments before. For the whole of dinner, she could not rise to meet those eyes and the judgement in them for their black depths left her too intimidated and too embarrassed to remember why she ever did such a foolish thing.
Author's Note: Hi lovelies! A bit of a delay with this one, but you know how it goes. So the plot thickens, and I have a surprise in the next chapter that I am so excited about! :)
Thank you to klandgraf2007 and AmyLNelson for the super sweet reviews!
klandgraf: I know Iliana is sort of my typical shy, naive, sweet, young girl which is oddly a character I don't usually write, so she's fun in that aspect. I think we can all relate to her a little bit, and next chapter she'll have to go see Damian (lets see if she trips and fall into his crotch -just kidding!) :) Yea and then Haemon's my bull in a china closet haha Cause I can't ever have normal characters, but like you said, it was the only way I could see him growing up. He's going to heal through the rest of the story and find his own peace in the most unlikely way possible ;) Ah! I'm so happy you like the other siblings too! I was worried they would seem unacknowledged, and we were discussing this before, I wanted to be sure they each had their own voice. Nereus is one of my favorite ones too because he's probably the most mature haha I want to do another scene with him and his wife because I see them very clearly in my head. Ascanius is definitely the sibling who's there to give you hell or back you up, and Ariston is just an impulsive, wild ass who's kinda endearing in that respect haha Oh I like rambling obviously :) I really appreciate the review, and I'm so happy you're enjoying it thus far. Hopefully you like this chapter too! xoxo
Amy: Ahh you always get inside my head and see where I'm going ;) Definitely two completely different love stories going on, and they're both going to hit a very unexpected bump in the next chapter hehe I'm glad you liked the mentions of Hector and Myrina. Honestly, there will be much more discussion of them as this continues. You know how I always have like a thousand different things going on, and I have to take my time in placing them all just perfectly so that they all work. I'm always worried my first chapters are so boring because nothing happens in them. They're just like suspense for what's to come haha Ah, anyway hopefully you are still liking where this is going and curious about what I've got in store next. Thanks so much for the review :) xoxo
