Seirsha of Errinton Page 7

  He meets my eye. “Or is it?”

  I frown at him.

  “Bear with me.” He sets the sword down. “How do we make dragon steel?”

  I’m unsure of the details and squeamish at the thought. When I think of the process, I see Adrinel.

  He shakes his head, mock disappointed in my knowledge. “We smelt the hide. The organic material burns away, but the scales—or what we assumed were the scales—melt down at the right temperature. It can then be merged with a certain ratio of iron and become dragon steel.”

  “All right?”

  Rigel’s becoming quite animated. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this passionate about something.

  He continues, “What if what we smelted wasn’t the scales at all—what if it were a mineral present in the hide?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Why do the dragons live in Errinton?”

  “They raise their young here. Most simply stay.”

  “But why do they come here? Why not Lauramore or Glendon? Why not warm and sunny Triblue—surely it’s more suited to their cold blood.”

  I sit on the bench and mull it over.

  “They are usually found around the hot springs, so I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s cold,” I say. His eyes light up, and I think about what I’ve said. “The dragons live here because of the hot springs?”

  “Because of a mineral present in the water.”

  “You’re saying this drachite leaches from the ground into the water, and then the dragons…what? Soak it up?”

  Rigel nods. “Something like that.”

  “So this is dragon steel, but purer?”

  “That’s right.”

  It’s all so very fantastic, it’s hard to wrap my mind around.

  Rigel sits next to me and slides the blade over his lap. “Once smelted, it reacts the same way, but because it’s so pure, much less is needed to create the alloy.”

  “How did you finally smelt it?”

  “The fire must be hotter. I ended up using fire talc to superheat the forge.”

  I look at him, surprised. “Is that safe?”

  He raises an eyebrow, acknowledging that, once again, I have insulted his pride.

  Smiling, I nudge his arm. “It was just a question.”

  Rigel shakes his head, but there’s a smile in his eyes.

  I run my finger along the scrollwork on the blade. “You made this, didn’t you?”

  He nods.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Our eyes meet. He’s close, as close as he can be without touching me. The door stands open, but it’s been awhile since I’ve heard the metallic tang of a hammer meeting iron.

  Absently, Rigel touches my pendant. As he turns it in his hand, his fingers brush against my skin.

  “I’ve missed you,” I whisper. “After all this time, why are you speaking to me now?”

  He drops the pendant. His eyes search mine, and then he slides his hand to the back of my neck. “When I found myself the victor of the tournament, my mind was consumed with only one thought.”

  Terrified, I whisper, “What was it?”

  “I was about to be married to the wrong princess.”

  I suck in a breath.

  Rigel’s thumb rubs gentle circles against my skin. “When I saw you wearing the pendant, it gave me hope.” He leans closer, his eyes serious and dark. “Seirsha, please tell me I may hold onto that hope.”

  Overcome, I stare at him. How I wish I could be like Pippa, brave and wild.

  I begin, “Father—”

  “I don’t care about your father.” He pins me with his eyes. “I told you—my loyalty is to you.” He lowers himself to the floor and kneels in front of me. “I swear it to you now.”

  “Yes.”

  Rigel raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Yes, what?”

  The forge has made it too hot in here to think. I draw together my courage. “Yes…you may hold onto your hope.”

  He leans forward. “Seirsha?”

  I’m entranced by his breath against my lips. “Hmmm?”

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My heart leaps as Rigel leans closer. Then he stops.

  A pained expression crosses his face. “This is wrong.”

  I flinch and pull back.

  He grimaces and lets out a breath of a laugh. In one smooth movement, he joins me again on the bench and wraps his arms around my shoulders. “No. This” —he motions between us— “is right.” He raises an eyebrow when I flush. “But this” —he motions to the workshop— “is wrong.”

  “Then take me somewhere else,” I say, my words oddly breathy.

  I’ve startled him, and his eyes drop to my lips. Something hot and sharp travels through me, like a shot of lightning from a summer storm. I can be brave like Pippa. I can be wild.

  “For years, all I’ve dreamed of is being kissed—truly kissed—by you.” My heart races, but I continue on, “Kiss me here, kiss me in a stable, kiss me anywhere.” I pin him with my eyes. “But Rigel—kiss me somewhere.”

  Rigel’s eyes search mine for only a fraction of a moment. Then he closes the space between us, and his lips find mine. Something breaks in me from the sweetness of it, the rightness. I remember it.

  I remember him.

  Expecting him to end the moment like when we were young, I sigh against his lips, preparing myself for the agony of parting. Instead, his hand tightens around my waist. The stubble on his jaw rubs against my skin, and I lose all thought. Every heartbreak, every fear, goes into the kiss. His fingers twine in my hair, and then they relax. He’s practicing a measure of control I can’t fathom.

  It’s so much stronger than mine.

  He finally pulls away. Laughing softly, he runs his lips across mine. It’s a feather-light touch that makes me tingle.

  Drinking in the sensation, I close my eyes.

  His fingers brush my jaw as he whispers, “Look at me.”

  I open my eyes. Why has he stopped? I lean in, kissing the corner of his mouth, coaxing him for more.

  He cups my face and breathes out a soft groan. “We must tell no one.”

  Startled, I pull back. Is he embarrassed of me, the princess incapable of attracting suitors?

  His perceptive eyes harden. “If your Father knew of this, he would do everything in his power to keep us apart.”

  I choke out a mirthless laugh. “If he wanted to keep us apart, he went about it in an odd way.”

  “Did he?” Rigel tilts his head. “I had to beg Pippa to drag you down from your chambers. You wouldn’t even look at me.” His thumb rubs gentle circles at my waist. “I thought you hated me.”

  My gaze shifts to the shields on the wall behind him. “And I thought you were disgusted, thinking that I—”

  “Never.” He tilts my head back. A smile plays on his lips. “I know you well enough.”

  I’m quiet for a moment, enjoying the feel of his fingers idly drawing circles on the base of my neck.

  I meet his eyes. “Did you truly beg Pippa?”

  He nods.

  Fighting to keep a straight face, I say, “That must have been humbling for you.”

  His lips tip in a slow smirk. “It was awful.”

  He kisses me again.

  I smile against the sweet press of his lips. “How do we hide this? Should I even be with you now?”

  “We’re fine.” His smirk grows. “Just wear your bored, indifferent expression whenever you’re in my company, and your father won’t suspect a thing.”

  I laugh and push him back. “Have you always been this charming?”

  Giving me a wry look, he pulls me to my feet. “I tone it down for the good of the masses.”

  I open my mouth to tease him but then shut it. I’ve seen the way the people admire him. There is more truth in that statement than he’d be willing to admit.

  ***

  I try not to let my eyes linger on R
igel, but it’s harder now than it’s ever been. It seems every time I glance his way, he meets my gaze. There’s a smile in his eyes, but to anyone else, his expression would be enigmatic.

  Father’s called another council meeting. He’s going on about something, but I can’t focus. Again, I let my eyes wander to Rigel. He raises an eyebrow just slightly. For his benefit, I give him a mock haughty look and glance away. When I look back, he’s hiding a smile behind his hand.

  I bite back a grin, feeling oddly giddy for cracking Rigel’s impenetrable veneer, and try to listen to Father.

  “Sire.” The Marquis of Preywoth crosses his arms. “We have no way to know if this item exists.”

  Father narrows his eyes. “That was true before, perhaps, but with this scroll, we have found proof.”

  He slams his hand on the faded yellow parchment in front of him as if to prove his point.

  The marquis looks unconvinced but wisely stays silent.

  Duke Everett clears his throat. “Suppose this sculpture does exist—”

  Father doesn’t bother to hide his sneer. “It does.”

  The Duke holds his hands out in a placating gesture. “What do you plan to do with it? And how will it aid in your search for an heir?”

  Rigel tries to pay attention, but I’m entertaining myself by distracting him. This is the most enjoyable council meeting I’ve ever been to.

  “Don’t you understand?” Father stands now, both hands firmly placed on the scroll. “The heir is irrelevant! Whoever possesses the figure will rise like a god. Immortal. Unstoppable.”

  Rigel’s eyes snap away from mine, and I whip around toward Father. The room falls quiet, and I can’t hide my horror. Father’s either truly gone mad, or he’s stumbled onto something he shouldn’t be toying with.

  Rigel clears his throat to speak, and the room turns toward him. “What creature created this figure?”

  I take a breath, already fearing what Father’s answer will be.

  Father sits slowly, enjoying the tension in the room. He sets his hands on the table with an air of calculated calm. “Wizard.”

  He can’t be serious. He is mad. Humans don’t possess magic. To use it, they must borrow it from forbidden, evil sources. Sources that are more than eager to share.

  The nobles are silent. No one dares question the king, and Father knows it. He watches them all, his eyes sliding along each man. He almost seems eager for someone to stand against him.

  As I knew it would be, it’s Rigel who finally speaks. “Your Majesty, forgive me—”

  “You will not dissuade me, Lord Rigel.”

  Rigel shakes his head. He’s struggling to keep his thoughts silent, but finally his convictions win. “Sire—”

  Father stands, his eyes narrowed at the only man in the room who truly poses a threat to him. “You are either loyal to me or you are a traitor.” He leans forward. “Choose.”

  The look on Father’s face is terrifying. He’s baiting Rigel, practically begging him to go against him. I can’t breathe. I wait with a trapped lungful of air.

  Rigel sits back. His jaw is clenched, but his face is otherwise emotionless. “I have always shown loyalty to you.”

  Father smiles. “And I have rewarded your loyalty.” His eyes flicker purposefully to me, as if he is threatening to divulge to the room the news of the sordid offer he made Rigel.

  My skin crawls, but I stare at the familiar beam in the corner, pretending indifference. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rigel tense and then hold out his hands in surrender. He sits back. Part of me is disappointed he gave up so easily. Another part is terrified he may not the next time. What would Father have done if Rigel had refused to back down?

  Father smiles. He has found a neat and tidy corner to back Rigel into, and he can barely contain his joy. He turns his smug eyes on me. Inwardly, I shrink away. On the outside, I tilt my chin a fraction higher. I’m not sure what sickens me more—the fact that my father is a monster or the flash of pride that crosses his face when I do not bow to his will.

  “Seirsha,” he says, satisfied. “You look peaked. You may leave.”

  I’ve never been dismissed before. So many times I would have been elated to be sent away, but now it seems like a show of power, a degradation. Father watches me carefully, waiting to see where my gaze will travel. I do not look at Rigel. Tilting my chin high in the air, I sweep out of the room with as much disdain as I can muster.

  “Rovert,” Father says from behind me. “Tell them the plan.”

  ***

  “He sent you away?” Bea hangs her cloak by the hearth. “How lovely!”

  I shake my head, knowing there is no way she will understand. This battle of wills took place because Father knows there is something real between me and Rigel. We’ll have to be even more diligent to keep our emotions hidden.

  Kara is soft in my arms, and her little sleeping form fills me with an ache I don’t want to think about. Pippa is two years younger than I am. By the time she reaches my age, she may have a child of her own. Unbidden, the vision of a dark-haired baby drifts into my head—a sweet little girl with gray eyes.

  Kara stretches, bringing me back to the present. I brush a few wispy light blond strands away from her face, hoping she will fall back asleep so I may hold her longer.

  Marielle is taking a much-needed rest. She’s taken on odd jobs for extra money. With the new baby, she’s exhausted. The first thing I noticed when she opened the door was the dark shadows under her eyes. She’ll become ill if she keeps up this pace.

  When I arrived, I immediately whisked the crying baby from her arms and sent her to bed. She argued, of course, but it didn’t take long to convince her.

  “How long have you been here?” Bea asks.

  “An hour, maybe two. I’ve lost count of the bells.”

  Bea wrinkles her forehead. “Alone?”

  “No. I had Kara.” As if to prove my point, I cuddle the baby close.

  Bea’s eyes slide from me to the baby, and then she kneels before me. “Is everything all right?”

  I don’t want to worry her. She doesn’t need to be informed of Father’s dangerous obsession yet. She knows me too well, though. It’s hard to hide things from her.

  Perhaps I can distract her.

  “Rigel kissed me,” I say.

  Her mouth drops open, and her eyes go from concerned to sparkling in less than a moment. “When? Where?”

  “At his estate.”

  Bea sets her hands on her hips. “That was four days ago.” She gives me a cold look when I shrug, but she’s not able to hold it. The sternness melts away, and she dissolves into a fit of giggles. “Did he tell you he loves you?”

  I give her a wilting look. “Let’s not rush things, shall we?”

  “But you love him.” Her expression goes from wistful to sharp. “Are you going to marry him?”

  The familiar pang of longing returns, and I say, “You know the answer to that.”

  As we talk, Bea busies herself with chopping sad-looking root vegetables and tossing them into the pot hanging over the fire. She glances up. “I meant in secret.”

  My stomach flips at the idea, and then it knots. “Father would kill me.”

  It’s the truth. Father would truly kill me, and he’d kill Rigel as well. I don’t particularly want to see the man I love hanged.

  Bea raises a tawny eyebrow. “Not if there were a chance you were carrying a legitimate heir.”

  I try to tamp down the hope blooming in my chest.

  “He would if the child were Rigel’s,” I argue. “Besides, the royal line may only pass through males.”

  “That’s a lie, and you know it.” She tosses a handful of something green and wilted into the pot.

  “Give me one example.”

  She looks up. “Queen Lavinia.”

  “That was centuries ago, and it was in Rigel’s line, not ours.”

  Bea smacks the knife on the table. “You mean the rightful line?”
>
  I suck in a breath, shocked not because what she said isn’t true, but that she was brave enough to say it. Something has set a fire under the people. I eye the meager meal Bea is making for the family of five. That fire is hunger.

  Bea dips her head, remorse in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

  “Don’t do that,” I snap.

  I’m not upset with her—never with her—but with the way things are.

  I continue, “Don’t ever apologize for speaking the truth.”

  Kara wakes. If it’s because she’s hungry or because of our argument, I’m not sure. I peer up in the loft, hating to wake Marielle.

  “It’s all right, Seirsha.” Bea says, softer now. She nods to the stairs.

  I make my way up the steps and clear my throat at the top, feeling as if I’m intruding. “Marielle?”

  The woman stirs. “Seirsha? How long have I slept?”

  “An hour or two.” I hand the baby to her mother.

  Marielle nestles Kara next to her and closes her eyes. “I’m so tired.”

  Careful to keep the fabric away from Kara’s face, I tuck the blanket around Marielle’s shoulders. “You need to rest this evening. You have overworked yourself.”

  Marielle mumbles about things she must do but soon falls back to sleep. I descend the stairs, careful to avoid the boards that squeak.

  I pull my cloak from the peg next to Bea’s.

  Bea looks up. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”

  “I’m going to make sure your mother brings home bread tonight. I don’t think Marielle is eating enough.” I cross my arms, noticing how slender my friend has become. “You either.”

  Bea sighs. “Mother won’t do it.”

  “I don’t plan on giving her a choice.”

  ***

  “No,” Rella says, her voice firm.

  “You will do it.” I narrow my eyes at the woman who’s the closest thing I’ve had to a mother in the last ten years. “And that’s an order.”

  Rella shakes her head, refusing to look at me as she efficiently kneads the dough in front of her.

  I glance at the women not far from me, all working themselves to the bone to keep the nobles well-fed. How much does Father pay them?

  Not enough.