The Shadowed Princes

The east side of Sorcha's Solar received sunlight through a long row of windows that alternated in stained glass and clear. A succession of fine cabinets stood between the windows. Sofas and chairs formed false alcoves around low tables and higher end tables. A fire burned in the hearth on the west side, warming the room in ways that the sunlight could not on that chilly day close to winter solstice. The windowless walls of the west side bristled with fine portraits of generations of the ruling Redhand family, painted by artists famous in their day. A sturdy square table, higher than the others, had place of honor on the west side for playing games.

Merissa Redhand Estrobian sat weeping. The chamber had not been used since before her birth. The portraits made her feel as if the long dead had their eyes upon her in judgment of her sins. The one that bothered her most, however, was the painting of Tarrant Redhand, the brother she had never known because he had died before her birth: the mon in the picture looked precisely like Kynyr down to the tiniest detail. The portraits of Tarrant, which now hung throughout the manor, had been taken down soon after his death because, Merissa had been told, seeing them had made her mother cry. Claw ordered them returned to the walls after the details of Kynyr's ancestry came out.

Nearly to term with Malthus' twins, she felt awkward and uncomfortable at the best of times. Merissa hated her husband. She could not imagine ever having loved him. Malthus had murdered her parents, her two aunts, and poisoned her nephew Kynyr. She wished with all her heart that she could betray him to her Uncle Brock, who now called himself Stoneriver. However, Malthus was sa'necari, one of the blood-drinking necromancers at war with her people. His arcane coercions lay so deeply set in her brain that she could not speak of what she knew. She had not known that he was sa'necari when she married him. Like everyone else, Merissa had believed him to be human. It was too late now and all she could do was mourn.

A witan had not been called since before her birth, and the number of thanes that Merissa had met over the years could be counted on one hand. Her mother, Aisha, had tried to protect her from the backbiting and intrigues of a formal court by dispensing with them. Merissa found herself unprepared for the degree of slanderous talk poured into her reluctant ears at every opportunity by the seven mistresses of the thanes that had accompanied their lovers to the witan.

They sat gossiping and making catty remarks, verbally jockeying for dominance. Jocelyn Doherty lorded it over them in ways that no one could compete with. The eighteen-year-old mistress of Thane Vertram Devlin possessed a measured sensuality gilded with a twist of venom, enhanced by the skilled application of rouge, eye shadow, and lip-stain. Although she told everyone how much in love she was with her wealthy paramour, most believed that she loved his money more.

Jocelyn patted Merissa's hand. "It's just baby blues. You should have seen me when I had my second one."

"My father and mother are dead," Merissa snarled. "It's not baby blues."

"So how many bastards have you given Vertram so far, Jocelyn?" Lillian Morrissey's salacious smile bloomed. She belonged to the thane of Castleborough, Banan Garrard.

"Just two. You should see the ruby pendant he gave me after I birthed the last one. I swear it's as big as my fist."

"The greatest sign of a thane's favor is a large belly," said Lillian, quoting an old proverb, adding, "And also plenty of jewelry, of course."

Berneen Hamilton, Clennan's sixteen-year-old mistress, dropped her hand to her belly. The puffiness showed only when her clothes were off, but loomed conspicuous in her own mind.

Jocelyn noticed the gesture and sneered at her. "Oh, has grandfather finally managed to get you all nice and full?"

Berneen winced. "Two months ago."

"At least we don't have to worry about him marrying you or something equally stupid." Jocelyn sniffed. "He says that, after outliving three wives, he has no interest is doing so again. No need to dilute our inheritances further."

"He's told me that." Berneen shifted uneasily, averting her eyes from Jocelyn's condescension.

Emma Smythe kept her head down, focusing on her embroidery, threading a strand of lavender floss. She seemed to be no more than fourteen, and yet her belly was so swollen she looked ready to burst like an overripe melon.

"Such a sorry lot of bloody whores you all are." Regina Devlin stalked through the room. "You'll take any worn cock into your hole if it's got a title and money. Then you parade your swollen bellies around as if they were badges of honor. You make me sick."

Emma cringed, ducking her head as a sudden tear trickled down her cheek.

"How dare you!" Jocelyn raised her hand to slap Regina.

"Touch me and Vertram will have a dead slut to bury." Regina jerked Jocelyn from the chair, sending her tumbling onto the floor, and settled into the vacated seat. She put her arm around Merissa. "If you need to cry, you need to cry. Don't listen to them. It looks like the thanes brought their whores, but not their wives."

GODWAR CENTRAL

The Shadowed Princes