The Thunderbolt was his usual inexpressive self. Allara was the same shaky fearful self. They were in his study, going over his daughter's academic progress. It had been ten days since he returned.
It was also the first time he was talking to Allara. She had waited with trepidation but for ten days he hadn't summoned her. He spoke to everyone but her. He had even hired a construction crew to remodel Landshield. The builders were a small army, outnumbering all the servants. They had set up camp in all the open spaces, knocking down walls, and carting out soil while carting in stone and marble mortar and wood. Corvinia and Sir Parnyl were getting a private steam room. Some of the guards were getting bigger rooms. Even Sylvia got a new closet. Allara hadn't gotten anything yet.
When The Thunderbolt finally summoned her, it was to go over her reports and Xaena's assignments. He wasn't happy with them. Allara blamed the princess's academic slide on the girl's recent long absence. She wasn't sure if her father was buying it. Only after work was out of the way did he broach the subject that had left Allara trembling with worry for days.
"You stayed," he said.
"Yes, Your Highness," she tried to hide the rattling of her teeth.
"I'm very happy you made that decision," he said. He didn't look happy. He didn't sound happy. And Allara hadn't made much of a decision. She had dilly-dallied until a guard rode in to announce that The Thunderbolt's ship had been spotted sailing into the harbor. He had returned a week early. By then it was too late for Allara.
"I am happy too, Your Highness," Allara tried to steady herself.
"I don't think you are," his intonation was flat.
"I am, Your Highness," she protested weakly.
"And now you're lying. To me!"
Allara dropped to her knees and apologized profusely, "I am sorry, Your Highness. I am very sorry. Please forgive me."
He got up from behind his desk and stood over her, "I only like the taste of fear in the heart of a man I'm about to kill. I don't find yours so palatable. Stand up!" he commanded.
Slowly, Allara struggled to her feet. "Go lock the door!" he commanded again. She obeyed wordlessly.
"Why are you always so deathly scared of me, Allara Stefanus?" he asked with a pained look. Allara's mouth was dry. She tried to talk but no words came out. "What about me is so terrifying?"
"I… I don't know, Your Highness," Allara stammered.
He gave her a long look. "Come," he finally said.
She slowly shuffled over to him and stood about a pace away. He held out his arms. "Come and embrace me, Alla," he said. That made Allara's heart beat even faster. He had never used the shortened version of her name before. The endearment. She paused in front of him, leaving a small gap between them. He just encouraged her with his chin. "Closer," he said when she stopped. She obeyed. "Closer," he said again. This went on until her body was pressed against his.
"Arms now. Put them around me," he told her. She put both her arms limply around his waist. "Higher and tighter," he commanded. She did as she was told but she was certain her head was about to explode. Then wrapped his own arms around her and completed the hug, bringing his chin to rest on top of her head. Allara took in a sharp breath. She thought her heartbeat was as fast as it could possibly be but it just got faster.
"Try to breathe in slowly," he said. Allara did her best to obey.
"What do you put in your hair?" he asked.
"Just pomade, Your Highness. I'll stop," Allara responded.
"No," he sniffed loudly. "I like it. It smells like an orchard."
Allara felt a blush creep up her neck. Her lips involuntarily twisted into a smile. With her head nestled against his chest, she could feel his heartbeat too. It was slow and steady. Not the circus drum hers was.
Allara started feeling other things too. She could feel the warmth of his body. The gentleness of his strong arms around her. He caressed her back slowly and she took in another ragged breath. She also smelled him. It was the first time she noticed his scent. It was a mix of things. At once distinct and merged. He reminded her of the smell of soil after the first droplets of rain hit it, of pines, of a gentle breeze, and of a roaring fire all at the same time.
Imperceptibly, Allara found herself calming down. Her heart slowed down and got back to normal. She found herself enjoying the embrace. His arms holding her, his warmth, his scent, his gentle caresses. She wanted to caress him back but she wasn't sure if she could. She just held on tighter to him. She felt his heart beat in tandem with hers. She sighed quietly and clung even tighter to him.
He ended the hug abruptly. He took his hands from around her back and placed them on her shoulders. Allara looked up at him. It was the first time she looked into his eyes of her own volition. The two purple orbs looked as steely as usual. In the middle of the irises were pupils as black as night. Allara caught her reflection in them, saw her expectant face, and felt herself blushing again.
The expression on her face was gentle but Allara thought she detected a hint of sadness. "You can go now," he dismissed her in a gentle tone. Allara realized she had held his gaze for too long and immediately dropped her eyes to the floor. Her hands were still around his waist. She gently took them off.
He watched her quietly as she unlocked the door and left. Her heart fluttered as soon as she was out of the study. It wasn't a flutter of terror. It was another feeling. A feeling she knew well.
Despite their intimate hug, The Thunderbolt resolutely ignored her for another six weeks. They still had their weekly meetings but he never discussed anything other than his daughter's academic progress. Allara was too scared to bring the topic up. She wasn't as terrified of him as she used to be but she still had a healthy fear of the man. Her heart didn't thud like a drum in his presence anymore but she never dared get too familiar.
The construction went on. The library was expanded. As did the men's bathhouse. The kitchen, the granaries, and the quarters of senior staff got similarly expanded. The benches in the servants' dining hall were replaced with proper chairs. Everyone got something. Allara got a new closet. Sylvia got new furniture.
Allara went on with her duties as usual. She tutored Xaena in the mornings. In the afternoons, she would go into the bathhouse with most of the other women. If there was a chariot race they'd go watch it. The Ash Eaters were finally winning more races than they lost.
Sometimes Lady Ermina would summon her to her knitting room. Allara now felt supremely uncomfortable around her. She always feared Lady Ermina would get suspicious but the Lady of Landshield never treated her any differently. They knitted, sewed, and made the customary trip to Thunderbolt Avenue every fortnight.
The Thunderbolt's life followed a similar pattern. His mornings were spent at the palace or The Hall of Elders. In the afternoons he would consort with the builders, and drill with his men in wrestling, archery, sword fighting, and combat with other weapons.
Every other week he would fight a mock battle against whoever managed to show up. In the absence of a competitor, he would split his men into two and fight against a volunteer commander.
Lady Ermina kept watching the drills and mock battles from her window while her husband kept ignoring her. As Allara was often at lady Ermina's side, she felt the sting of the cold shoulder more acutely. She thought she felt it doubly: firstly by being ignored herself and secondly by wondering about the role she played in her master's cold treatment of his wife. The couple always looked chummy when entertaining guests together but The Thunderbolt's icy treatment would resume as soon as the guests left.
Allara found it curious that every person around her was happy except for her. Her mother was glad to finally have her children back. They wrote to each other every week. Her mother often shared small anecdotes from Kiburk that she thought Allara would find interesting. But she never asked Allara about The Thunderbolt. Allara often wondered why but never asked.
Bogdyr was enthusiastic about the cod wars, which the Baenarites were winning. He had received his second commendation for courage and a battlefield promotion to archivist. He was beyond overjoyed. His next target rank was Kumyer, commander of ten. He was certain he would attain it within a year if the war went on. Promotions are hard to come by in peacetime, he had written back in response when Allara asked why he was so excited about the war.
Sylvia was thriving as well. Everyone called her Lyvia now. Sylvia herself had fully embraced what had started as a corruption of her name. "If His Highness says my name Lyvia, then it's Lyvia," she had told Allara. Allara kept calling her Sylvia. And she knew Amran was responsible for the corruption. Allara could have corrected him all those months ago but was too terrified to open her mouth.
One day, after returning from the temple early, Allara heard moaning, and the creaking of a bed through the wall. When Allara asked about it the following morning, a jovial-looking Sylvia told her she was hearing things that weren't there.
Yet Allara kept hearing those things. Sylvia's door would lock and unlock late at night. This was often followed by giggles, heavy breathing, and a lot of whispering. Allara was convinced Sylvia was having an affair. She found it troubling that Sylvia would refuse to share the news with her. At The Roost, Sylvia would always rush to tell her when a boy so much as looked sideways at her. But as Allara was hiding her own secrets from Sylvia, she felt she had no right to pry.
Sylvia remained her best friend, a distinction she never dared make in front of Corvinia. The three of them had become inseparable. Be it in the bathhouse, the theaters, the market, the temple, or even the stands of the Siwanj Aesandrius during the chariot races. Corvinia became the de facto leader of their friend group, deciding who could and couldn't join in their activities.
Allara didn't mind. Corvinia always seemed to know the theaters putting on the best plays and the best places to find a good deal on anything. "Pharasandria is in my blood. I know every corner of this city," she would often brag.
Corvinia also had the filthiest stories. It didn't help that they involved her husband, Sir Parnyl, a man whose sexual appetite had not been dulled by his disability. "All the function of his second leg went to his third one," Corvinia would joke.
Allara often found herself suppressing a giggle when she interacted with the chamberlain. For all her complaining, Corvinia adored her husband. She bought scandalous nightwear every other week. It became part of Allara and Sylvia's duties to judge if it was seductive enough.
The onset of her pregnancy only seemed to just intensify her appetite for hanky panky. "It's even better when there's a baby in there," Corvinia would whisper in their ears. "You should try it. Best feeling ever." Allara and Sylvia would just giggle like little girls.
The only places Allara was ever alone were the library and her room at night. It was on one of those nights that she got the fright of her life. It was towards the end of spring, only ten days before Aeduianza, the first day of summer. It was a couple of hours after sunset. Landshield was quiet. Everyone had gone to bed. Allara was in bed, reading a rather unchaste and very illegal book she had purchased from one of the scribes by candlelight when the door of her new closet burst open.
She flung the book away, jumped out of bed, and was busy unlocking the door to scream into the hallway when he emerged. It was The Thunderbolt. He was dressed in a simple linen tunic. Short-sleeved, knee-length, and gray as ash with zero ornamentation. "Your Highness!" Allara gasped.
He just put a finger to his lips and gestured at her to come to him. She relocked the door and shuffled slowly to him. He closed the distance in a single stride and took her into his arms in a fierce embrace. Allara's knees felt weak. She hadn't expected such intensity. She took in a ragged breath, inhaling him again. He was just as she remembered him: earth, wind, water, and fire.
"I missed you," he whispered. She returned the embrace with as much strength as she could muster, realizing she had missed him too. All the worry and doubt of the past six weeks faded away. There was only him. The feeling of his arms around her, the warmth of his body, and the intoxicating scent of him.
After a long while, he finally released her. "How did you…" she tried to ask. He shushed her again.
"Come," he said quietly. She followed him into the semi-dark closet. He put his hand out and after some twisting, the back panel of the closet opened into a small room brightly lit by a lantern. It was empty but for the lantern. He picked up the lantern and unlocked a second door. Then he took Allara's hand and led her down a set of stone steps.
Allara counted the steps. 42. At the bottom, the steps turned into a narrow hallway. Allara quietly counted her paces as they walked. The Thunderbolt said nothing. After 162 steps, they came to a door. He released Allara's hand to unlock it. She took his hand as soon as he unlocked the door.
The door opened into a large room. He put the lantern down on an exquisitely carved table ringed by couches with velvet cushions. He lit some candles set in golden candlesticks. Then he showed her around. There wasn't much. There was a large bed on the opposite side of the room and a small fireplace. A huge water clock stood opposite the bed. Three and a half hours after sunset, Allara read.
The closets were bigger than her room upstairs. There was a privy and then a private bath with a huge marble tub set in the ground, in the room next to it. The bath had taps for both hot and cold water.
"What is this, Your Highness?"
"Our den. Where we'll be meeting. It took a little long. Had to conceal its building with all that construction," he held out a small dagger with a strange blade. Three crossing blades in truth. A central blade and two side blades welded down the middle of its spine to form a four-edged dagger. One of the edges was serrated, like a saw. All four edges of the strange blade intersected at a single wickedly sharp point.
"What's that?" Allara looked fearful at the strange four-edged dagger.
"It's a key," The Thunderbolt explained. "And very good at stabbing too. If anyone asks, it's a fancy knife you bought. Store it well. You will find the keyhole on the back panel of your closet. You will come down here every night, you will keep this place clean, and you will never mention its existence to anyone."
"I understand, Your Highness," Allara took the strange blade. The Thunderbolt handed her its equally strange sheath. Then he kicked off his sandals and climbed into the large bed. "Come," he beckoned.
Allara suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. Her chemise barely reached her knees. Her shoulders were bare except for two narrow straps. It also exposed part of her chest and the upper parts of her breasts. If she wore it outside during the day she would be whipped for indecent exposure. If she wore it at night she would be taken for a prostitute. But it wasn't meant to be worn outside anyway. It was an undergarment. She only ever wore it to bed or under her clothes. She found it insane that she was suddenly worried about modesty yet she was alone with a man.
That brought rise to her second problem. Allara had never been with a man. She had a rough idea of the mechanics. She had read certain filthy books the scribes passed quietly among themselves. And Corvinia mentioned the act all the time. In excruciating detail. None of that stopped the onset of terror she was feeling at the moment. Yet here she was. There was no turning back. I should have left, she chastised herself for the hundredth time since The Thunderbolt had returned.
Confused, she fumbled with the non-existent buttons of her chemise. 'You pull it over your head, you fool,' a voice in her head taunted. "That will not be necessary," The Thunderbolt said as Allara grabbed her hem and started lifting it with a pair of trembling hands.
"Your Highness?" she gasped, half relieved, half confused.
"I just want you to hold me," he said in a strangely beseeching tone.
Allara slowly climbed into the bed. She slowly slid closer to him and he pulled her the rest of the way. He put a pillow under her head and cradled it against his chest with one arm while the other wrapped around her back. He sniffed her hair and went still. Allara put one arm around him and waited for him to move. He didn't.
She felt the gentle beating of his heart and her own slowed down to meet the rhythm. She inhaled his scent, relished the warmth of his body, and snuggled closer to him, feeling her feet touch his. He just pulled her closer and sniffed her hair again. Allara felt like she was wrapped in a warm cocoon. She started drifting off.
When Allara woke up, she was all alone. The candles were burning low. Half an hour after sunrise, the water clock read. She felt fresher, relaxed. She had stopped having nightmares about her father's execution after the visit to her mother. Her dreams were more pleasant these days, formless, and forgettable. She liked it.
A red rose lay by her pillow. It confirmed that the previous night hadn't just been a dream. She picked it up and sniffed it. Its scent was pleasant but she would rather have sniffed him. His scent lingered on the sheets. She gathered them around herself and inhaled deeply. "Caedmyr," she sighed quietly. The thought surprised her. She had never presumed to call him by his name. Not even in her heart of hearts.
Allara finally got out of bed, changed the linens, splashed some water on her face, and trudged back to her room. It was as she had left it the previous night. Blankets hastily flung aside and A Courtesan's Chronicle lying facedown on the floor.
The book recounted, in graphic detail, the adventures of Mapena Cobhurg, a daughter of a minor and impoverished noble house who had taken up the life of a courtesan.
By her account, Mapena bedded and spied on half the lords who sat in the Conclave of Elders, foreign princes, and even a brother of the Emperor of Maevi'i, reportedly on the orders of the then Prince Daegan. Mapena Cobhurg herself had been executed half a century earlier for publishing the scandalous tome.
Many of her so-called lovers and clients denounced her account as a pure fabrication. The book had been banned and all existing copies torched. But the tale was too scandalous and the details too juicy to just vanish. Its writer's execution just contributed to its notoriety. Some copies still survived, copied and passed out around discreetly in the low places of Pharasandria. That apparently included The Thunderbolt's library.
After trying to hide the book in various places, Allara decided to just burn it. It already had one corner burned off. The scribe she caught with the book had tried to torch it when she walked in on him in a secluded corner of the library. "300 Silver stallions," he had insisted once Allara clarified that she wasn't going to tell on him and expressed her interest in a book.
"That's a high price for such a small book," Allara complained. She knew books were expensive but A Courtesan's Chronicle was barely 150 pages. Its pages were also half the size of those of a standard book.
"It's a banned book. That makes it doubly expensive," the scribe insisted.
After some haggling, he accepted 250 stallions. Allara held a candle to a corner and almost immediately snuffed out the fire. I'll burn it after I finish reading it, she concluded. That left the problem of where to hide it.
After a succession of unsatisfactory hiding places, she finally had a revelation. She unstitched her mattress and stuck it deep inside the feathers. The tightly packed feathers proved troublesome but after a short struggle, she managed to stuff most of them back into the mattress cover. She sewed it closed again and inspected her needlework. Perfect.
She realized she was running late and ran out. Allara decided to skip breakfast. There wouldn't be enough time to eat anyway. She made it up to the main dining hall just in time. Princess Xaena was just finishing her eggs while her mother watched. Lady Ermina's food was mostly untouched. The aroma of the sausages, cake, and bacon made Allara's stomach grumble.
"Caedmyr," Lady Ermina sniffed the air. Allara stiffened. I should have taken a bath, she rebuked herself. Too late. The Lady of Landshield stood and made for her. Allara stood stiffly, while her heart thundered. Ermina Rhexbhurg walked past her in a swish of skirts. She gave Allara a small nod of acknowledgment as she swept past while half a dozen ladies in waiting trailed after her.
Allara stood still for a long time before realizing Lady Ermina was gone. Only her perfume lingered in the air. It smelled sweet, seductive, like what Allara imagined Mwikul smelled like. It was the scent of flowers and herbs. With a hint of spice. And bacon. Allara yawned.
"Are you hungry, Allara Stefanus?" Xaena asked.
"No, Your Highness," Allara lied.
"You're lying," the princess stabbed a long sausage from her mother's plate with a fork and offered it to her. "Eat."
"That's not necessary, Your Highness," Allara demurred even though her stomach told her otherwise.
The princess was having none of it, "In the name of my father, I command you to eat this sausage."
With no other choice, Allara accepted, "You can sit," the princess motioned at the chair next to hers. Allara obeyed wordlessly. She could tell this was going to be a difficult day. Allara preferred little girl Xaena. Little girl Xaena was pliable, sweet, and eager to please.
Today Allara was getting Princess Xaena. Princess Xaena was stern and imperious, like her father. Princess Xaena seized power from Allara in the classroom and actively resisted doing anything she didn't feel like doing. That turned out to be almost everything except painting and games. Such days were a struggle and often left Allara exhausted.
Whichever personality the princess adopted on a given day depended on who she had breakfast with. Ironically, it was on days she dined with her father that she was little girl Xaena. That was most days but not every day. Lady Ermina's plate was also emptier on the days her husband showed up for breakfast. Today Princess Xaena was shoving the contents of that plate down Allara's throat. Princess Xaena insisted that she eat everything. A hungry Allara obliged.
"What are we learning today," Princess Xaena asked as a maid cleared the table.
"Sums, spelling, and painting."
"But we did sums and spelling yesterday," the girl protested.
"And you got everything right?" Allara countered.
"No," the girl shook her head slowly.
"That's why we're repeating them today. We will also be learning some new words."
"Anything else?" Princess Xaena asked.
"Shapes."
"I know shapes," the princess said. "Circle, rectangle, square, star."
"Do you know oval?"
"No," the princess said.
"Can you draw circles, rectangles, and squares perfectly?"
"Why do I need to? I will just tell a scribe to do it."
"But how will you know the scribe is doing it right if you can't do it yourself?"
The princess had no counter to that. "Shall we go now, Your Highness?" Allara asked.
"Yes," came Xaena's answer. Perhaps she'll not be that troublesome after all, Allara hoped. She helped the princess off her high chair. "Have you seen father?" Xaena sniffed the air as Allara set her down on the floor.
Bloodhounds, Allara thought. I have to take a bath. "No," Allara said. The princess just grunted. Allara took the princess by the hand and led her out of the dining room, across the central courtyard where she liked to pick flowers, and into the library.
Allara's classroom was on the first floor, with a window overlooking the rear courtyard. Nicanor's was in the room next to hers. Nicanor's classroom was larger. He tutored a dozen students, nearly all of them sons of castle servants. Lervina Nambhurg, Lady Ermina's 16-year-old cousin, was the only female in the room.
Allara waved politely at Nicanor as she passed. He waved back. He looked miserable these days and Allara found some perverse pleasure in that. Two boys and a girl, all Xaena's age, waited inside Allara's classroom.
There was Corvinia's son Little Parnyrl; Maddox, Sir Horax's youngest; and Ermina, the stablemaster's daughter. Besides her cousin Prince Daegan, these were Xaena's best friends. They were diligent and obedient but would always join any classroom mutiny led by the princess. Allara prayed that Xaena would behave herself today.
Allara started her pupils off on sums. The going was smooth until the castle bells rang thrice, announcing the third hour after sunrise. Her charges immediately started scrambling for a break. Maddox insisted he needed to pee. Allara sent him off. She had the rest finish their sums before taking them out for their break.
They played a blistering round of tag, then hopscotch. That's when the castle bells rang four times. Allara thought that was enough but Princess Xaena insisted on a game of hide and seek. Allara flatly refused. The last time she'd let them play the game, Ermina and Xaena had hidden until lunchtime.
They compromised on rope skipping. Allara decided to teach them rhymes and spelling games as they skipped the rope in turn. They sang along lustily, learning even as they convinced themselves they were ditching class. When the castle bells rang five times, Allara put her foot down. She flung the reluctant princess over her shoulder and threatened to drag the rest back by their ears if they didn't follow. "You will have the whole afternoon to play as much as you want," she told them.
They studied for another hour. Took a short break at noon and came back to class for another half hour of painting, their favorite lesson. Not a bad day, Allara sighed when the bells rang seven times. Her charges were ironically unwilling to leave, deliberately shading outside the lines so she would make them redo their paintings. "Aren't you hungry?" she suggested.
That always worked like a charm. It was met with resounding yeses and a scramble for the exit. What to do now? At The Roost she worked from sunrise to sunset and was often tired to the bone. Here, she had the rest of the day to herself and barely felt any exhaustion.
She tidied her classroom, entered the day's grades in a ledger, and set aside Princess Xaena's classwork. Her father always reviewed it once a week. As she filed the numerous sheets, the merchant's daughter in Allara briefly regretted the waste of costly paper on children's scribblings but The Thunderbolt's daughter would not write on cheap wax tablets like some peasant's whelp. Allara planned her lessons for the next day and locked up.
Nicanor's class was emptying as well. He was mediating a four-way argument between Amran, Little Horax, Lady Lervina, and the very intense, tall, and unbelievably skinny Baxtyrn Lamanbhurg, Sir Parnyl's 17-year-old son, the only child from his first marriage.
Baxtyrn The Beanstalk was the tallest person in Landshield. Bookish to a fault, you could often find him arguing with the scribes, priests, and even visiting scholars from The Maktab of Caedmyria.
His father's attempts to make a warrior out of him had fallen flat. Baxtyrn was often called the ghost of the library. He bragged about having read every book in Landshield's library and would do the same to The Maktab's library once he got to Caedmyria in the fall.
Allara found Baxtyrn's claim about reading every book in Landshield's library hard to believe. The library housed thousands of books spread over four floors. Allara had never seen that many books in one place anywhere else. Only The Academy's library was said to be larger. But Baxtyrn knew where every book was. He was a walking catalog. And the scribes constantly complained about him pointing out their spelling mistakes.
Allara waved at the cluster of Nicanor's students but nobody seemed to notice her. Only a bored-looking Little Horax waved back. Allara's first stop was the bathhouse. She didn't want anybody sniffing her again and smelling Caedmyr on her.
The bathhouse was almost deserted. The women didn't come in until well after lunch. This suited Allara just fine. She skipped the steam room and dived straight into the hot pool. She enjoyed the heat of the water and lingered a while. Ermina's mother, Shara, was in the bath. She asked after her daughter and Allara informed her of Emina's progress.
It was from Shara that Allara learned The Thunderbolt had gone to Caedmyria. "My husband accompanied him," Shara said proudly. Allara was blindsided. The Thunderbolt hadn't said anything to her. His trips to Caedmyria were nothing new. He visited the city at least once a month, sometimes twice. The trips never lasted more than a day or two.
Allara had even accompanied him on one of these trips, to attend the passing out parade of Banerite recruits, one of whom had been Bogdyr. Still, she couldn't help feeling the sting. "Is there a problem?" Shara asked when she saw the pained look on Allara's face.
"No," Allara lied. They continued talking about a variety of topics until Allara finally excused herself. She changed her clothes and went to the servants' dining hall for lunch. Mukhlun Gregory, Sir Horax, Hamyr, and about a third of the guardsmen had accompanied The Thunderbolt.
The remaining guardsmen were arguing over the chain of command. The 150 guardsmen of Landshield were organized just like the army, with commanders of tens and fifties, with Sir Horax as the overall commander of all 150. Only two kumyrers (commanders of ten) were left, and they were busy arguing over who was who's superior.
Allara ate, chatted awhile with the other women, followed the argument, and left when she received a summons to the knitting room.
There were nearly a hundred women there. Half were servants. Allara wondered whether she should count Lady Ermina and Princess Aemilia's ladies-in-waiting, many of whom were highborn themselves among the servants. The others were noblewomen. Wives, sisters, and daughters of lords residing in The Royal Quarter.
Princess Aemilia was the most frequent royal visitor to Landshield but this was the first day Allara had seen her in the knitting room while her brother was absent from the castle. Lady Ermina often showed Allara off to her guests. Allara would show them her techniques. The noblewomen would often ooh and ahh at the speed of her fingers and the cleverness of some of her techniques. Today was no different.
In the midst of one of her demonstrations, Princess Xaena and Prince Daegan burst into the knitting room with a gaggle of giggling lordlings in tow. The five-year-old rulers of the future turned immediately at the sight of disapproving looks from their mothers and aunts.
"Xaena!" Lady Ermina called after her daughter.
"Did your father tell you he was going to Caedmyria today?" Princess Aemilia asked.
"Yes, Auntie Aemi," Xaena answered. "He told me yesterday. Said he will bring me a pony."
Princess Aemilia exchanged a look with her sister-in-law. He didn't tell them either, Allara realized. She felt relieved but also very sorry for Lady Ermina.
"Do you want a pony too?" Xaena asked her aunt. "Father can bring you one if I tell him."
"No, I don't need a pony," Princess Aemilia said. "I have more horses than I will ever need."
"Father says you can never have too many horses," Xaena said. "He says a good cavalryman is worth ten footmen."
"I will take that under advisement, General Xaena. Go play."
Xaena skipped away, blissfully oblivious to the sullen silence she'd left behind. The knitting session ended early. Allara left after the visitors went to collect their children.
She ran into Corvinia, Sylvia, and nine other women in the courtyard. "I see someone is rubbing shoulders with royalty," Corvinia teased. "I hope you're not too good for us Alla."
After defending herself and downplaying the importance of her presence in the rarefied air of the knitting room, she allowed Corvinia to drag her to a play in the lower city. The play was in the Guildhall of Glaziers. "Let me show you and your party to your seats Lady Lamanbhurg," an usher told Corvinia.
It always surprised Allara when Corvinia was called by her official title. With the way she acted with them, it was easy to forget that Corvinia was a noblewoman. Corvinia hadn't been born into nobility. Her father had been a merchant, like Allara's. Her grandfather had been a freedman.
Her nobility came from her husband. Sir Parnyrl was a younger brother of Lytyrn Lamanbhurg, the titular Lord of Lamania, a small Khars Sea port town on the Luche Delta 40 miles north of Caedmyria.
The Lamanbhurgs were among the oldest, proudest, and most storied of Rhexian nobility. During The Lost Millenium, they often contended against the Reendeni kings of Caedmyria, who had renamed the city Deltopolis. Questionable decisions, some bad luck, and good old aristocratic stubbornness in the preceding century had seen most of the Lamanbhurg fortune evaporate.
"They have more pride than gold," Corvinia often whispered of her in-laws. "But the name is what matters." Corvinia always introduced herself as lady Lamanbhurg and Allara was always impressed by the lengths people would bend over to please her.
"Marry a lord, Alla," Corvinia often advised her. "They're a proud and exclusive lot but a few impoverished ones won't mind a freedwoman if she's pretty enough and has a nice dowry."
"I don't come with any dowry attached," Allara would remind Corvinia.
"That's a problem indeed. You will have to travel the old true love route. Not the easiest one."
"How did you marry your husband then?"
"A bit of both. He was besotted with me and my father offered him a nice dowry."
It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows for Corvinia. Other noblewomen. The proper ones. The ones born into lordly families instead of just marrying into them shunned her. "They call me vulgar and lowborn," she'd spit. "Then when they want someone to put in a good word for them with His Highness, they treat me like a long-lost sister. To hell with them. I'd rather spend my time with you fellow lowborn sisters."
Allara took her thoughts off Corvinia and focused on the play. It was the tale of the fictitious Lord Lovebhurg. He fell in love with his slave. The two had a passionate affair until his wife found out. Lady Lovebhurg hanged the slave. In the final act, the lovesick Lord Lovebhurg confronted his wife, "Why did you kill my slave?" Lady Lovebhurg handed him a fistful of coins, "Go buy another." And the curtain fell. Half the audience was sobbing.
The women decided to walk home. "How can we miss this cool evening breeze," Corvinia said. Darkness was gathering but the streets of the lower city were just as busy as ever. Pharasandria never slept.
By law, a lantern or candle had to be set at every window so the streets were well-lit. The streets of the upper city were less peopled but not entirely deserted either. The upper city had proper streetlights.
While her friends shared their opinions on the play, Allara was mostly quiet. Thankfully, no one noticed. When they got to Landshield. Allara feigned sickness and excused herself. Corvinia went to her husband. The rest went off to the dining hall. Allara didn't have much of an appetite.
She stayed in her room. She wanted to finish A Courtesan's Chronicle but decided to postpone that until she had a larger block of time available. Sylvia came by later to say goodnight. It was only then that she went downstairs into the den.
She was surprised to learn that only two hours had elapsed after sunset. The castle's bells didn't ring at night. Telling time after dark was often impossible. She knew it was too late when she started dozing off. And she always woke up with the sun. failing that, she could always rely on the sunrise going to wake her. It was intentionally overloud for that very purpose. But I didn't hear it this morning, she recalled. Too far underground maybe.
She thanked The Thunderbolt for the water clock and emptied the reservoir. Then she climbed into bed and waited for him. She hoped he would come. Someone can go to Caedmyria and return within a day. He didn't show up that night.
Allara slept fitfully, haunted by nightmares of Lady Ermina hanging her. She would check the clock every time she turned. The pointer barely moved. By midnight, she was more tired than she had been when she climbed into bed.
Allara went back to her room but her bed wasn't any more comfortable. Sleep eluded her entirely. She unstitched her mattress, extracted A Courtesan's Chronicle, and finished it. When she headed back into the den to burn it, she was enraged to learn that only an hour had elapsed.
She took the bed linens from the previous night. His scent still lingered on them. That helped with the sleep but not with the nightmares. The Thunderbolt didn't come to her on the following night or the one after that. The more she waited, the more his scent faded, and the angrier she got.
On the fourth day, The Thunderbolt finally returned to Pharasandria. He got to Landshield just after noon. The announcement came rather rudely. One of the younger children burst unceremoniously into her classroom. "Your Highness," he addressed Xaena. "Your father has returned!"
The princess burst out without waiting for permission. Maddox and Ermina followed closely behind. Only Little Parnyrl stayed behind. His father rarely left Landshield. He was the least headstrong of Allara's quartet. "I'll tell your mother" was always a great deterrent when he misbehaved. "You can go," Allara dismissed the boy. He dipped his head and ran off too.
Allara walked across the library to a window in time to see the princess streak across the courtyard like an arrow, making straight for her father. Ermina and Maddox fanned out on either side of her, on a collision course with their own fathers.
As his daughter approached, The Thunderbolt squatted, put his hands around her armpits, and launched her into the air as he stood up. She giggled and he smiled. He launched her into the air and caught her several times before holding her to his chest. Father and daughter appeared to be engaged in a light-hearted conversation. Sir Horax and Georghin, the stablemaster, engaged in similar scenes with their children.
The Thunderbolt said something to Georghin. The stablemaster gestured and two stablehands led a small pony into the courtyard. The Thunderbolt had to stop his daughter from jumping out of his arms and onto the horse.
The pony was small. Its size was more big dog than horse. Allara didn't know much about horses but she could still tell a fine mount when she saw one. This one was magnificent.
She judged the pony to be a one-year-old foal. It had a spotted coat, black spots on white. Its legs were long and lithe and its head was perfectly sculpted. The pony's body looked a little small given the length of its legs but she could tell that it would grow into a powerful mount. The hairs of the foal's mane and tail looked like polished silver.
The Thunderbolt lowered his daughter onto the small saddle. Princess xaena shrieked happily. A guardsman held the reins of the pony and led it away. Watching the whole scene filled Allara with a strange sense of joy. And a little envy. It wasn't the bad kind of envy. It reminded her of reunions with her father after his voyages. It made her wish she was a little girl again. And she also wished she had children.
"Ah, to be a child again," Nicanor sighed. Allara had been so engrossed in the scene below she hadn't noticed him standing next to her. His presence didn't fill her with rage as much as it used to but despite his repeated attempts at friendliness, Allara couldn't help the sense of hostility she always felt around him.
"Wanna run and embrace your lover?" Allara taunted. Mukhlun Gregory stood by his master, his bald head reflecting the sun like a polished dome. Nicanor gave Allara a pained look and walked away.
The Bhangel advised forgiveness for sincere apologies. Nicanor had done his best but he was so glib Allara could never tell if he was sincere. And she could never forget the sword he and the warrior priest held over Bogdyr's head.
She considered telling The Thunderbolt about it but dismissed the idea out of hand. For all his faults, Nicanor was a nice man. His students respected him and everyone liked him. Ever since they got to Landshield, he had gone out of his way to be as helpful as possible. And it was Nicanor who had stopped Mukhlun Gregory from killing him.
The warrior priest was something else. Allara wouldn't mind seeing the last of him but if he got buried alive, Nicanor would be right there in the hole next to him. And she didn't want Nicanor dead. Not like that. All he had done was love the wrong man. And that was something Allara was beginning to understand.
In the servant's dining hall, the guardsmen, who were often very talkative about their excursions to Caedmyria were tight-lipped, even to their comrades. They all had one refrain, "If His Highness wants you to know, he will tell you."
Allara went to her room after dinner. She had Sylvia's door unlock and pretended she hadn't heard anything. Sylvia excused herself shortly thereafter. Allara locked her own door and went through the closet down to the den below.
The Thunderbolt wasn't there. She waited restlessly, getting more annoyed with every passing minute. It was well past midnight when he finally came to her. He came through a second door to the right of the room. Allara had her back to the door. She stayed still and pretended to be asleep.
He climbed into bed next to her and gathered her in his arms. His touch was like a soothing balm. Allara wanted to sigh loudly as his hands wrapped around her. All her annoyance and anger faded away. She wanted to turn and embrace him back. She wanted to kiss him and make him promise he would never leave her alone without warning.
"You're angry at me," he said quietly. Allara stayed still, breathing slowly. "I know you are awake," he added.
She turned, wrapped her arms around him, and nuzzled his neck. "No," she whispered. "I'm just happy you're here." And she was. Her body trembled slightly with just how good it felt to be in his arms again. She pulled herself tighter against him until her entire body was pressed against the length of his.
"But you were angry at me before?" he asked while gently stroking her hair.
"Yes," she admitted but she was more distracted by his scent. She never wanted to inhale anything else. It traveled up her nose and into her lungs and spread throughout her chest, warming and caressing her from the inside.
"Why?" he asked.
"You didn't say you were leaving," she caressed his face for the first time. The look on his face was priceless. Gentle, sweet, and confused all at the same time. It made Allara want to kiss him. Badly.
"Mmmh. That," he swallowed. "I'll try telling you next time." He cradled her head against his chest, "Go to sleep. It's late." He tried to sound stern but failed miserably. Allara found herself smiling. She was happy he couldn't see her face. She slept well that night. And the one after that and the one after it…
"You're bleeding," he said to her one night.
"How did you know?"
"I can smell the blood," he said.
Of course, Allara thought. Blood of gold. Son of Aemlilon. Cuddling with the Thunderbolt every night sometimes lulled her into forgetting who he was. These were only temporary lapses but moments like these hit her with facts on the head with absolute clarity. He was no mere man. He was the descendant of a god. That blood had to give him elevated senses.
"I don't want to be parted from you," Allara answered honestly. Outside their underground den, The Thunderbolt didn't treat her any differently. She was a servant and he was her master. Inside, things were different. Allara thought of them as lovers even though The Thunderbolt never wanted any more than to be held. They hadn't even kissed but their affair was no less intense.
They had fallen into a familiar pattern. The Thunderbolt often came to bed late and left before Allara woke. It always stung her a little when she rose to find him gone but she was always awake when he came to bed. She loved nothing better than to wrap her arms around him and feel his around her. It had to be the best feeling in the world. She always fell asleep with her head nestled against his chest, the steady thud of his heart providing a soothing rhythm. She didn't want to miss any of that.
"You have to go to the temple," he told her. "You shouldn't shirk responsibility."
"Can't I skip this month?" she suggested.
"I'm sure you women track each other somehow," he said. "Think of all the gossip if you skip your monthly temple visit."
Allara could see his point. Temple stays were common knowledge. Every man and woman had to serve in the temple for at least five days every year. Unmarried women of the warrior class had to do it every month, during their period. And Allara's stays often coincided with those of Lervina Nambhurg. If she skipped one temple visit, everyone would assume she was pregnant. Or worse, an impious honorless woman who dared cheat the gods out of their rightful service. Being a murderer was infinitely preferable to being branded as honorless.
"I will go in the morning," she promised. She held even tighter onto him. 'I will miss you so much,' she wanted to tell him. She also wanted to kiss him. But she had never worked up the nerve.