The Dove and the Hawk Pt. 09

Many thanks to my advance readers, including Not_E and happyyy_, as well as to my editor LaRascasse.

Content warning: references to sexual assault, references to bodily mutilation

***

Litheian walked down the long stone hall, pausing as the walls gave way to the open courtyard, the summer sun shining down on the carefully tended garden on the ground floor. The royal palace in Kiridas was full of such small wonders, balancing the need for light and warmth in the lowland plains of Anderar. She smiled, seeing that the irises were blooming, their creamy heads rising above darker folded-down petals.

Across the courtyard, she saw Idano going in the opposite direction. Catching sight of her, he walked towards where she stood, flanked by her attendants.

"Il-hanaa," he said, bowing low.

"Il-sushvyan," she replied. "What brings you to the palace today?"

His brows arched subtly in surprise. "The Council convened a meeting. I thought you were headed there yourself, il-hanaa."

She frowned. Why would Anderar's Council be meeting without her?

"It is good that we met, then," she replied cooly, nodding politely by way of farewell, and he bowed again.

Picking up her skirts, Litheian headed purposefully for the Council room. She would lecture her advisers later for failing to inform her. Nearing the double doors to the hall, she waved for them to be opened, and the great oiled hinges swung silently.

"-- not a matter for discussion!" Bethaer was saying as she entered.

The Council elders in their seats nodded to her and she returned the gesture, setting her eyes on her husband's standing figure at the end of the table. He was flustered and frustrated, so unlike his usual demeanor when dealing with matters of state.

"I apologize for interrupting, il-rathshaen," she said quietly, though the words carried in the silent hall. "I was only just informed of this meeting."

She glanced at her husband, who was shifting guiltily from foot to foot. The lords and ladies of the Council likewise avoided her gaze, and she fought to calm the sudden anger that rose in her blood. There were few times she was treated as less than her husband's equal, but when it happened she had to rake over the coals of her fury so that her temper simmered instead of boiling.

Sedately she went to sit by her husband's side, clasping her hands together as she turned to the most senior council member, Fatan. He had only recently returned from his year at the high court, serving on the High Council. He eyed her, his face unreadable.

"I would hear what matter the Council wishes to discuss," she said, ignoring her husband's gaze. He was trying to catch her eye, no doubt to dissuade her from insisting on the subject. That made her want to know all the more.

Fatan glanced about the table, as if to see if anyone else would speak first. When no one did, he sighed. "For the future and security of Anderar, it is imperative that you bear more children, il-hanaa."

Beside her, Bethaer bristled. She reached out a hand to him without looking, a small warning not to interfere.

"Our daughter is to inherit the throne when she comes of age," Litheian reminded them, voice low. If the Council thought they could deprive her child of her rightful place, she would not hesitate to show them her wrath.

"We do not dispute the judgment of the High Council," Fatan assured her. "But your position would be more secure with multiple potential heirs if -- gods forbid -- some calamity should strike the royal family."

"Losing your queen would also be a great calamity," Bethaer all but growled.

Another elder spoke up, a woman named Kilda. "We have confirmed with the court midwife that her majesty is healthy enough to bear a second child, as she has already informed you, il-hanaa."

"And as I have already told you," Bethaer snapped, "This is a private matter that should remain free of the court's interference."

"If House Andertha had even one other remaining member, then I would agree, il-hanaan," Kilda replied. "But you are the last surviving male descendant of Anderan. To pull a successor from another branch of his family would upset the balance we have only just reestablished these past few years."

Out of the corner of her eye, Litheian could see Bethaer gritting his teeth, and she pulled back her hand with a sigh.

"We have heard your concerns and we will consider your wise counsel," she said firmly. "But my husband is also correct. This is a private matter we must discuss between us first."

"Very well," Fatan said. "We await your decision, ilen-hanaen."

Litheian nodded politely and stood, sweeping out of the hall without waiting for her husband to join her. He must have deliberately withheld knowledge of their meeting from her, not wanting her to face a room full of elders pressuring her to submit her body once more to what was necessary to conceive a child. Well-meaning but overstepping nonetheless.

She was striding down the corridor, her attendants scurrying behind her, when she heard the commotion in the great hall. Frowning, she made for the giant, airy room, which was filling with subjects in preparation for when she and Bethaer would hold court that afternoon. Only the first twenty citizens could be admitted without referral from their provincial governors, and one man had arrived too late to earn a spot.

"Come back tomorrow!" the guard shouted, directing him back into the crowd.

"But I've traveled for weeks!" the man protested.

"Then you should have lined up sooner!" admonished another man. "I slept by the gate all night for my place!"

"You don't understand!" the man shouted.

Litheian turned to go, but not quickly enough.

"Il-hanaa!" the man cried out. "I beg of you, render your judgment!"

She forced her hands, which had balled into fists, to loosen and rest at her side. A knot of dread was forming in her stomach, for she'd heard this plea before.

Turning to face the door, she lifted her skirts and walked imperiously down the hall, past the line of waiting subjects. The man knelt on the floor as she approached, solidifying her suspicion. All around them the courtiers and citizens held their breaths.

"Your queen hears your desperation," she said, voice steady despite the cold feeling in her bones. "I shall hear your plea directly."

"Do not forgive me, il-hanaa," the man pleaded, face to the floor.

She swallowed. "Do you come to confess a crime?"

"I do," the man answered, and the crowd began to whisper and writhe in anticipation.

Litheian held up a hand, and the great hall went silent.

"Confess," she told him, dreading his words.

"I committed a most terrible crime against you, il-hanaa," he declared. "I dared to harm your person while you were with child. Please, render your judgment against me."

"Show your face," she commanded, and he lifted his head.

Litheian flinched. Seeing the recognition in her eyes, the man put his head to the ground once more. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, her heart beating faster with fear and fury. This was the last man who'd used her before Olandrion consigned her to the rashd.

"Why come forward now?" she demanded. "You could have lived out your days with none the wiser."

"I could not bear the guilt of my sin," he replied. "So please, il-hanaa, give me a criminal's death."

She curled her lip at him. If he were so desperate to die, why had he not thrown himself in the Taiber River and spared her the sight of his face, the memories of his presence?

"You shall not have it," she told him, voice cold. Bethaer had executed the last man who came forward, and she had merely stood by. But for her, death was too lenient.

"You shall be branded," she announced, "and your manhood cut from your body. But you shall keep your hands, for you will need them in the mines."

The crowd pulsed, people nodding and murmuring to each other. She turned away from the cowering man as he was hauled away, not stopping until she met her husband in the doorway.

She halted, tense and trembling, staring straight ahead. "I shall not attend court today," she said flatly, and he nodded silently.

He moved aside to let her pass and she hastened toward the royal apartments. Only after her chamber door shut behind her did she allow herself to breathe, her exhales coming out as sobs. She crumpled to the floor as Lisse ran to her, cries wracking her body.

***

Bethaer sat alone through the complaints of the nobles and commoners, calling an early end once the urgent matters had been seen to. He stalked down the hallways with a scowl, servants and courtiers alike giving him a wide berth. When he reached the training grounds, he threw off his jacket, reaching for a sword before his attendants could bring forth his personal weapons.

The guards held back until the captain of the queen's guard himself walked out into the yard to meet his challenge. They would have all heard by now, he knew, and their trepidation was warranted. The last time a former soldier had voluntarily confessed to raping Anderar's now-queen, he'd nearly maimed an opponent in his fury. But the captain was better at a sword than him, and they sparred until the evening.

Bethaer called for a bath before dining with the rest of court, where his advisers only nodded politely, leaving him to brood alone. He nursed his wine, knowing his wife would be waiting for him tonight, after he'd gone around her in meeting with the Council. He'd been ready to face her ire, but not like this.

He entered his chamber warily. Litheian sat at the edge of his bed, her face pale and drawn. He could tell she'd been weeping, for her eyes were red and puffy even in the dim lamplight. He felt the urge to comfort her but knew this would only make her angrier. She was not here tonight to join him in bed and hold him tight, as she did when her nightmares plagued her and only his sleeping form could keep them at bay.

She didn't turn to look at him as he walked over, nor when he sat heavily by her side.

"I should not have hidden the matter from you, im-uvnya," he said.

"The elders are right," came her reply. "It has been three years."

"Our daughter is healthy and strong," he argued quietly.

"And young," she reminded him. "Without any father's kin to back her claim."

She was right; he knew she was. And yet. "The elders will heed the word of the High Council. The people will not forget why the throne is hers to inherit."

Litheian shook her head. "People forget easily."

He turned to face her. "How can you say such a thing? Even today --" He broke off, not wanting to speak the words in her presence. He swallowed hard. "Even if they do forget, even if the Council cares not to remember, I do. I can never forget, im-uvnya."

"Is that why you tried to shield me from their demands today?" Her tone was cool and distant.

"I know what you dream of," he replied softly. "I hear your cries as you sleep. How could I let you hear such a thing from the mouths of those who have not had to hold you, trembling in the night?"

"The midwife says I am healthy," she countered.

"And what of your heart?" he demanded, gritting his teeth in frustration at her stubbornness. Why did she always push herself so, put herself last among her concerns?

"What of it?" she replied hotly. "Do you think I am too weak to bear the cost of conceiving another child?"

"If you will not think of yourself, then think of me!" he shouted. "How can you ask me to touch you in that way, when --"

"How dare you," she snarled, standing stiffly, "compare your fears with my suffering. I have never flinched from your touch, im-uvnyan."

"But I have hurt you," he retorted, standing to meet her dark gaze.

"Once," she hissed, "in all the three times we ever lay together, and only because of your father."

Bethaer recoiled. "Is that what you regret most, my queen? All of this is because of my father!" He swept his hands in a wide arc, over the screens and the bed and the balcony overlooking the city, twinkling in the dark.

Litheian did not speak for a long moment. "How can you think so little of me?" she asked, her voice low.

The hairs on his arms prickled, and he shifted his stance. She reminded him of a venomous snake he had encountered once, coiled and still with fury. "I think everything of you," he replied softly, trying to walk back the heaviness in the air.

"You think I gave up everything," she said.

His mouth worked but no sound came out. He could find no words to counter her assertion, none that wouldn't be lies.

"I am so tired of your pity, im-uvnyan," she sighed, and then walked out.

He stood there, frozen by her accusation as surely as though she had driven a stake through his heart into the cold earth.

They had never raised their voices to each other before today, and he regretted being the first to do so. He regretted so much.

Bethaer collapsed onto his cold, empty bed. The emotional rigors of the day felt crushing on his mind, and he couldn't think. Better to sleep first, he told himself. Tomorrow he would apologize to his wife.

But he never had the chance. When he awoke the sun was low in the sky, the pounding on his door insistent. Blearily he rose and opened it to find the chamberlain, dressed as he had been the night before.

"Do you ever sleep, man?" Bethaer mumbled, still sleep-addled.

"Her majesty left with the dawn," the adviser replied, and he was instantly awake.

"Left where?" he demanded. Sometimes she went on rides to clear her head, but this had never been a matter to wake him for before. Was she hurt? Had she disappeared?

"The servants were up all night packing her belongings," the chamberlain replied.

"And no one thought to inform me?"

"I was balancing accounts, and everyone else was asleep. I only discovered she had left when I came down to sleep myself."

Bethaer paused at his frantic efforts to dress himself, his guts twisting with dread. "Where did she go?" he said, too loudly.

"Out the west gate. That is all I know," the chamberlain said defensively as Bethaer rounded on him.

He hailed his manservant, who quickened to his side. "Find out where the queen is headed," he instructed the man, who bowed low and raced out the door. His other attendants streamed in to fuss over him, but he shook them off.

"Do you intend to follow her?" the chamberlain asked. "Shall I send word to ready the horses?"

"Not yet." The pit in his stomach was growing, but he knew he couldn't act rashly. It was unwise to leave Kiridas without both its rulers on such short notice. And he didn't want to leave his daughter alone.

Their daughter. His heart sped up as he exited his chamber, heading for her room. Surely Litheian hadn't taken Meakia with her. Had she?

Her attendants were at her door, waiting to wake her, but this did not reassure him. He flung open the heavy door, startling the nurse on night duty. She bowed hastily and left as he made for the bed, stopping when he saw her sleeping form.

Weakly he knelt at her bedside, calming his breaths. He watched as his daughter's chest rose and fell easily in her sleep, and he couldn't resist reaching out to caress her dark hair.

Meakia opened her eyes, a brilliant shade of green that made his own murky green ones pale in comparison. "Abba," she said, smiling. She was too young to address him formally yet.

"My strong little daughter," he replied, brushing her cheek. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

She yawned and nodded tiredly, turning over and fidgeting with the end of her braid. He stood up and backed away, shutting the door quietly as he exited. He turned to the nurse, who bowed silently.

"Have you seen the queen?" he asked her.

"She spent all night with her highness and left before the dawn," the woman answered.

Bethaer closed his eyes. His wife had only done this once before, when she'd needed to travel to the high court. She'd been away two months, and being parted so long had pained her greatly. She had spent days with their daughter when she returned, scarcely letting her out of her sight.

He turned toward the sound of footsteps growing closer and saw his manservant running toward him. Bethaer let the man catch his breath as he bowed, gasping for air.

"Her majesty is headed for Lamath," the man said finally.

Bethaer's heart sank. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, il-hanaan. She spoke to the gate master herself."

"Did she leave any words for me?" His voice carried more yearning than he had wanted to reveal.

"No, il-hanaan. She said only that she was going home."

Home. He closed his eyes. She had not set foot in Lamath since Meakia had been old enough to travel to Kiridas. But now she was returning there without so much as a farewell to either him or their daughter.

Did she even intend to return?

***

Litheian awoke in the predawn hours, Lisse still snoring softly next to her. There had only been one open room at the inn, with a single bed. She'd insisted that her maidservant stay by her side, not wanting to be alone.

She still had nightmares when she slept alone.

Counting her breaths, she stared up at the low ceiling as the black faded to gray, faint shadows gracing the walls as the early summer sun peeked over the horizon. Tonight she would be home, surrounded by her family. Perhaps that might be enough to fill the ache in her chest, which had threatened to consume her ever since she left her daughter's side. Absently she rubbed the spot over her heart, trying to ease the pain.

Lisse turned over and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Litheian followed suit, and soon they were seated at the great table downstairs, dipping the remains of the previous day's bread in a warm summer soup teeming with fresh-cut greens.

The air was cool and dewy as she stepped outside, breathing in the mud-and-hay scent of the inn yard. The coachman was about to bring round the carriage, but she hailed the captain of her guard. She wanted to ride today.

By noon they reached the guard post atop the ridge overlooking the city. The watchman called a halt to their small party, and she inched her horse forward, holding out her hand. The man's eyes bugged as he saw her signet ring.

"Forgive me, al-duya," he said, bowing. "Shall I send a rider to announce you?"

She shook her head. "I'll go ahead myself."

Litheian spurred her horse into a trot. The sparse forests gave ways to fields rippling with summer crops, and she picked up her pace. The long-straight road was wide enough for a single rider to race down the center, and she urged her mount into a gallop.

Her guards' protests fell away; her braid streamed out behind her and the wind whipped at her face. All she could hear was the solid hoofbeats beneath her and she laughed into the free air.

She slowed as she neared the city gates, looking back as the captain of her guard caught up to her. He scowled but said nothing as she smiled brightly at him. They tarried by the gates until the carriage finally came into sight, and she dismounted. She switched places with the young guard whose horse she had borrowed, sliding into the carriage to be met with Lisse's fussing and tidying.

One of her guard must have ridden ahead, for when she exited the carriage her stepmother was waiting for her. Litheian reached out her hands and her stepmother took them in her own, her gaze full of questions. But she didn't voice them, merely escorting her to the women's wing, where a room was waiting for her among her sisters' chambers.