Chapter Two
"What did she need?"
Eomund used the tip of his knife to carefully edge dirt out of the pattern on his cuirass. It was useless to pretend with Railf.
"The council is arranging a marriage for her. The throne must have an heir."
He felt his friend's piercing gaze. "So…"
"Milady will always do what is best for Rohan."
"As will you." Railf's voice sounded loud in the silence of the hall.
"Aye, as will I."
Eomund brushed debris off the surface of the leather cuirass and started on the next curling design. It was a boring, tedious task, but it needed to be done.
"It is a grievous thing that our leader should ride into battle carrying pain from our own people."
Eomund's hands stilled at Railf's words. "We all bear our own scars. I will not be a coward and shrink from bearing mine."
His friend's dark eyes rested on him a moment. "Take care lest you bear it needlessly."
"No. Absolutely not."
"Milady, we have no other choice." Girult followed Illian as she paced the small interior of the study. "Ominous reports come from our southern borders every day and again the wolves threaten the herds. Eomund may be called away any day."
"But two days?" Illian fixed her steward with a hot glare. "I will not even have a proper dress!"
"The ladies can alter what you already own." Girult halted and watched her, sighing. "I know it's unusual, but these are unusual and dangerous times."
"And Eomund?"
Girult raised his chin. "I will speak with him immediately."
"No." Illian forced her gaze to not waiver at his startled look. "I'll tell him."
Her steward shrugged. "As you wish, milady. I will go attend to the preparations."
"Fetch Eomund for me, please. I will speak with him here." Illian watched Girult leave, then leaned her elbow on the center table and dropped her head. What am I doing? This is a nightmare.
"Milady, are you ill?"
A warm hand rested on her shoulder and Illian raised her head from the table, swallowing as she met Eomund's anxious blue gaze. He knelt beside her chair, one elbow on the table's polished surface.
She looked away. "No. I am not ill." Though I definitely feel like it.
Illian heard his breath escape and he stood, one hand leaning on the table edge before her. "What is it, Illian?"
He was cross at her—and with good reason. He had more important matters at hand than her dramatics. She must get a grasp on herself.
"I asked for you because the council has informed me of their decision, and I must acquiesce. We shall be married in two days."
"So soon…" His quiet words held the shock she felt.
"You are needed to the West and may not return for some time. They say it must be now."
It would never be the same between them, again. His buried resentment at being forced into such an arrangement would always scar his view of her.
No more easy, casual conversations and quiet discussions of state affairs. No dabbling in Rohan's creeks and racing each other across grassy fields. And the council's expectations of an heir—she choked, feeling tears spill over.
He hated it when she cried, but she did not care. Her world had fallen apart, her last firm rock crumbled beneath her. She did not care what he thought.
"Illian…" His deep voice was taut with strain. She could not meet his eyes and see the anger and disgust there, even when she felt him lean down toward her.
Eomund cleared his throat. "I am honored, Illian. I will do my best to be a good husband for you and a good king for our people."
She managed a nod. Not queenly poise, but the best she could do.
"I must go. It seems there is much to be done."
He straightened with the faint clack of his sword. Illian felt him looking down at her. Just leave. Please. Leave me in peace.
Eomund's boots thudded on the floor and then the door clicked shut behind him.
Eomund sucked in air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He adjusted the folds of his best cloak, checked the sword that hung at his waist. Everyone was ready. Everyone except him.
Once, sitting beside Illian on the sunny bank of the Thranduin, he had dreamed of this day. He had been fourteen, little more than a boy beginning to be a man.
And now it was happening; but it was all wrong.
The memory of her tears when she gave him the news still haunted his thoughts. She had been distraught, while he was too startled and joyful to offer her much comfort.
He had not planned it like this.
But it had happened and it was up to him to care for Illian as best he could. He felt less like a warrior of the Mark and more like a mouse in Driten's stall.
"Milord."
Eomund whirled, a hand on his sword.
"It is time to go. Everything is in readiness."
"Thank-you, Asef." He took a deep breath, stepping out of his quarters and toward the great hall.
She looked beautiful.
He had known she would. Illian always looked beautiful, even when returning from a difficult day at the healing houses. The women of the court had woven flowers into the braid below her gold circlet, and she wore a gown of deep green that slid over her curves.
Eomund buried a sigh, glancing back at the whirl of dancers celebrating the marriage. Illian looked sick to her stomach. Her green eyes were wide and her cheeks even paler than normal.
He took a swallow from his cup and cast another glance at Illian. The others would stay up dancing and celebrating until the wee hours of the morning, but he doubted Illian would last that long.
She flinched when he touched her elbow.
Eomund took a deep breath and gave her a gentle smile. "You look tired. Shall we leave?"
Illian stared at him a moment, her pulse fluttering beneath the skin on her neck. Eomund felt a cold sickness curl into the pit of his stomach. She'd never been afraid of him before.
She broke eye contact and her hand fumbled for another grape from the bowl before her. "I'm fine."
Eomund pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He'd wondered how to handle this. Illian— and, honestly, he as well—was uncomfortable with the idea and the council had not exactly been understanding.
"Illi…" Eomund raised his head. "I just think you should get some rest."
She swallowed, smoothed her dress. "You're probably right."
Many eyes followed them as they slipped from the hall, but Eomund moved between Illian and the crowd. At least she would be spared from them seeing her face.
He walked her to the door of the quarters they would now share, and paused. He opened the door for her and looked down, but her eyes were flicking around the room.
Eomund hesitated, then stepped back for her to enter. "I'll see Driten settled for the night."
A flicker of gratitude in her eyes was hidden as she stepped inside and shut the door. Eomund grimaced as he walked through the cool, quiet night toward the stables. She was thankful now; his cowardice would probably make things more difficult for her in the long term.
She had said he always spoke with wisdom. He wished for more of it now.
Eomund pulled down the handle of the door to their quarters, knocking his elbow against the wood to warn Illian of his presence.
She sat on the edge of the bed, a long nightgown covering the feet she had tucked up beneath her. Her loosely braided hair fell behind her. Eomund swallowed and crossed to the hearth to add more wood to the fading fire. By his sword, she was beautiful.
"Is Driten well?"
He tossed another log on the fire and sparks chased each other up the chimney. Eomund turned and rested his elbows on his knees. "Well enough. He's bored without being on patrol."
Illian nodded. Her wide green eyes still watched him from their corners. Weariness fell over him, sucking willpower from his bones. Eomund rose and moved slowly toward her.
"Illi…"
She turned her face away and her shoulders began to shake. It felt like Driten had kicked him in the gut. What had he done? She no longer trusted him.
Eomund crossed to the bed and sat beside her. He gripped her shoulders and turned her toward him. Sobs wracked her frame and she refused to look at him.
"I'm sorry," she said, gasping. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
"Illi…" He pulled her tight into his chest, his heart twisting in sympathy. He held her until finally her sobs began to ease.
Eomund loosened his grip. "Illi, look at me."
She swiped at her cheeks, her tangled golden locks falling across her face.
"Illian. Look at me."
A shudder went through her body; she slowly raised her eyes and swallowed.
"Illian, milady." He took a deep breath to suppress the pain of meeting her tearful gaze. "It's me, all right? It's just me."
She gulped, her breathing uneven.
"All will be well, milady. I swear it." Eomund carefully brushed the hair from her face with a finger. Illian blinked and her throat moved as she swallowed.
He put every ounce of confidence he possessed into his gaze. "You trusted me before, Illi. Trust me now."