“The exterior might look a bit rugged, but the interior is decorated so magnificently that it wouldn’t pale beside any castle in the Central Region. You won’t find anything lacking during your stay.”
The man spoke soothingly, watching her complexion. Talia responded with nothing but deep suspicion.
Did this country bumpkin have the slightest idea what the Imperial Palace or the great houses’ estates even looked like inside?
Whether he caught her disdain or not, a faint pulse throbbed at the man’s temple. He added, stressing every word:
“Raedgo Castle was built by Dwarves during the Era of Warring States. It boasts a scale and comfort comparable to the Imperial Palace….”
“I know. It is the fortress your Khan people built by hauling off the northeastern Dwarves as slaves.”
The man’s mouth shut tight at the sharp retort.
Talia pressed on, intending to make sure this flippant man would never dare address her so casually again.
“If you are finished rattling on about matters I never asked of you, would you mind leaving?”
“Ha, well.”
The man shook his head in sheer disbelief, dumbfounded.
“Does Your Highness happen to know the meaning of the word ‘sociability’?”
“Do you know the meaning of the phrase ‘unwarranted meddling’?”
Talia sharpened her tone.
“Or perhaps the meaning of ‘insolence’?”
Realizing further words would gain him nothing, the man gave his reins a sharp snap and wheeled his horse away as though in flight.
Talia snorted at his retreating back and pulled the carriage window firmly shut.
People who approached with uninvited kindness invariably harbored ulterior motives.
Besides, that Easterner’s smile had never reached beyond his mouth; his eyes had been methodically dissecting and measuring her.
He was merely trying to size up what sort of woman the future Grand Duchess would prove to be.
With a scornful breath, Talia drew the curtains shut and sank deep into the cushioned seat.
She could not drop her guard for an instant. The Shearkan clan surely regarded her with distaste.
The late Empress Bernadette and the Grand Duke had been first cousins, bound by close blood. The Khan clan would harbor deep resentment that the daughter of the current Empress—their bitter political rival—had taken the seat of the next Grand Duchess instead of their own kin, Ayla.
Talia pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. The reception waiting for her might be far colder than she had braced herself for.
Even in the Imperial Palace, where Senevier reigned supreme, had she not endured every conceivable foulness? Raedgo Castle would surely be worse, never better.
Talia picked with a fingernail at her lip, where dry scabs had formed from ceaseless gnawing.
Her throat, parched with fever, stung sharply. She drew a water flask from the cabinet set into the wall of the carriage to moisten her mouth, just as the blare of a horn echoed from without.
Talia parted the curtains once more.
Before she realized it, the carriage had reached the front of the fortress.
As though undergoing an inspection, the carriage slowed to a crawl, then finally rolled through the towering iron gates.
Peering outside through the glass, Talia let slip a soft, startled breath.
The words of that Easterner, Tyrone, had been no lie. Defying its raw, stone-faced exterior, the interior of the fortress was laid out with meticulous, calculated grace.
She took in the streets, kept clean and orderly, the spires thrusting straight toward the sky, and each exquisite building in turn. Every block looked as though carved by the deliberate hand of a single master stonemason.
The fortress, raised from gray stone and black marble, struck a stark sculptural harmony of varying heights, while arched bridges of stone linked the keeps together like living veins.
As she watched in quiet wonder, a fountain standing at the center of the plaza caught her eye.
Talia’s eyes widened. A fountain far vaster and grander than anything in the Imperial Palace was throwing up powerful jets of clear water.
The fortress sat upon an astonishingly rich water source.
The overflow from the basin poured into channels cut into the paving stones and ran outward along the aqueducts.
Her gaze darted endlessly, taken aback by a stronghold woven so seamlessly from stone, marble, steel, and rushing water.
Just then, the cavalrymen riding ahead halted before a massive structure that seemed to be the inner keep.
Talia looked toward the front.
Before the fortress—a blend of the Roem Empire’s delicate masonry and the bold lines unique to the East—stood a reception of people dressed in vibrant fabrics.
Varkas reined in his mount before them, swung down from the saddle, and barked a command in the Eastern tongue. At once, the figures waiting upon the terrace swarmed down the steps and surrounded him.
‘Are they his kin?’
As she studied them with guarded curiosity, Varkas parted the noisy crowd and strode straight toward her carriage.
Talia hastily pulled the curtains shut. She leaned back against the seat, intending to feign sleep, but without warning, the carriage door swung open and Varkas climbed inside.
Talia looked up at him, her face tight.
Just as he had dressed since leaving the Roem Knights, Varkas wore black iron plate with an Eastern-cut robe draped loosely over his shoulders.
His broad frame, carrying the sharp scent of dried grasses, filled the whole compartment in an instant.
“How do you feel?”
Having pulled off his gauntlet, Varkas laid his bare palm against her forehead. Feeling the heat radiating from her skin, a faint crease settled between his brows.
“The fever has not broken.”
“…I am fine. It has not been a single day or two.”
Talia cast her gaze downward, her expression rigid.
Perhaps she had grown somewhat used to him; she no longer flinched violently each time his hand touched her, yet the stiff discomfort remained impossible to shake.
As her fingers aimlessly caught at the folds of her skirt, he slipped the heavy coat from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. Then, as though it were the most natural course in the world, he slid his arms beneath her knees to lift her.
Talia jerked back, pulling her knees tight against her chest.
“Stop! Do you mean to humiliate me before your own family as well?”
Varkas’s eyes narrowed slightly. He tilted his head as though he could not fathom her objection.
“What is humiliating about a husband attending to his wife?”
Talia stared at him, choked of words.
She had long known this man was ruled by an inflexible sense of duty. Still, she had never expected him to insist on playing out his role even in a marriage forced upon him by the Emperor.
Her eyes burned into his.
“Is that what Ayla taught you? That a husband ought to attend to his wife?”
His brow knitted at the spite in her voice.
After a brief pause, as though weighing his words, Varkas answered flatly.
“Did I not swear before the altar to cherish my wife as my own flesh?”
“Ridiculous. You do not even care for your own flesh.”
· · ·
“And I have no intention of playing the meek wife simply because some priest recited it from a text. So you may drop the farce of the devoted husband as well.”
Having snapped her piece, she rose unsteadily to step down on her own, but Varkas stepped behind her and scooped her effortlessly into his arms.
Talia glared up at him, indignation rising in her chest. Before she could let fly another barb, Varkas spoke first.
“Do I look foolish enough to expect meekness from you?”
“What is that supposed to—!”
“It means I expect nothing of you, so do as you please.”
His voice remained dry as he shifted his arm, steadying her squirming weight.
“Just as I intend to do as I please.”
With that, he pulled the hood of the cloak over her head and stepped out of the carriage.
Talia winced as the harsh daylight struck her eyes.
Once the white blur faded from her vision, unfamiliar faces came into view, watching her with an open mix of wariness and curiosity.
Blood rushed to Talia’s face. Humiliation burned through her at the realization that, far from showing the stature of an Imperial princess, she was being carried out like a helpless invalid.
“Is this the woman who pushed the First Princess aside to take her place as Brother’s wife?”
As she instinctively tucked her face into the curve of his neck, a clear, young voice reached her ears.
Talia glanced back.
A boy with messy black hair and wide, amber eyes was staring at her, hands laced casually behind his head.
He seemed about fifteen, with lingering soft roundness to his boyish cheeks. He stepped directly before them.
The boy peered inquisitively down at her as she peered back from beneath the hood, only her eyes exposed.
“Her eyes look just like lapis.”
Then, without hesitation, he reached out toward her head, intending to pull the hood away.
Before she could recover from the sheer shock of such insolence, Varkas caught the boy by the wrist.
“Lucas.”
A voice cold enough to freeze the air dropped from above her head, making her start.
END