8

Brendart’s head pulsed and his eyes were reluctant to stay open. He desperately wished he could be anywhere else but here. His thighs hurt from standing as the Archpriest spoke. His family, as small as it was, felt as if a crowd in a day like this. A small number of lords and ladies from all Lorvanar had come as well. They had gathered in the castle’s chapel, the Chapel of Whispers, it was called, though it wore another name more than a five centuries past that was now long forgotten. It was built before the Eastern Empire arrived to Akrevann, when Greatkeep was first built by Krastent Lorvan the Great with the aid of thousands of sorcerers who wove their spells deep into the keep’s stones, it was said. Before they went extinct. and it was believed to be the first church dedicated to the Grace of Ellth in all of Akrevann.

The light flung down through in a myriad of colorful shafts from the high the stained glass window. Each window depicted a scene of the Kin’s Creation and the coming of Ellth, bringing light and care to man. At the very end of the chapel stood the Archpriest, reciting the creed of Ellth, and above him many sculptures had been wrought in stone and gold among pillars of many sizes. Though these represented many fights instead of lore. Ellth and His Kin in their eternal fight against the Dark One’s grotesques. Brendart examined those intently, trying to distract himself from the situation he was in.

Bells tolled and pigeons stirred up in the many nooks and niches of the chapel’s dome as the chime echoed.

“And now… we all gather, brought together by The High One to witness this sacred union that will bring unity in these times!” The Archpriest kept going. It seemed to Brendart that the end was nowhere near. He wondered how it was possible for the Archpriest to even be to speak with such intensity, as he looked more than a hundred years of age. It was marked in his speaking, for he stammered and frequently ran out of breath, forcing him to start whole sentences anew. “As Sadohr and Sadelle…”–he took in a generous breath –“come together in the skies these souls will come together in the flesh and this unity shall repel the dark times The Dark One has bestowed… The Dark One has bestowed upon us!”

Brendart repressed a yawn. Bloody Ellth, this priest will die before he even finishes… Hells, I might die before that.

He tried to find something else to focus on to keep himself as sane as possible. His sleepless nights had worsen, and the last one was no exception.

Princess Ardinette stood to his left, her hands clasped together. She was a short and frail woman, her top of the head barely reaching Brendart’s shoulder. She wore an elaborate white gown with golden trimmings and a silver circlet crowned her, the details resembling many interweaving arrows with golden tips. Her plaited hair was donned with golden laces, and hung a little above her waist. She was downcast and would not look up. Her eyes seemed fresh swollen and red and traces of tears were marked on her soft cheeks.

Brendart’s attention found her breasts. The dress’s cut made them to beautifully stand out. She was only ten and five years of age, and her maidenhood had recently flourished. Brendart smiled as he looked at her, feeling his manhood harden inside his breeches. Now that is something I can endure all this for.

After a time that seemed an eternity the moment to speak the vows came. Brendart’s were swift and well improvised, enough to appease the witnesses and make a good portrait of himself. When it was the bride’s turn she barely spoke, if not refused when her voice broke. Some muttering rose among the guests.

“Look!” The King spoke up from his seat. “She is so, overwhelmed, anxious for love, that she can barely speak! Forget the bows! We know how good a woman you will be for my dear son!” His face was reddish and his words slurred. He had been keen to the bottle ever since dawn’s break. Yet he still kept some of his wits to show in instants like this. A skill well-earned in all his years. Hen he sat back down Brendart saw a dash of a grimace in him.

There was a burst of approval and the chapel’s clamoring rivaled with that of the bells.

“And so!” The Archpriest bellowed as his lungs allowed. “For Ellth is Great and welcomes you as one, you shall walk as one under His Kin’s watch!”

When the ceremony concluded the Sun was partially in its zenith. And the cyan sky was clear of clouds. The courtyard was swarming with people, all dressed in colorful attires. Harpers were harping, some jugglers were juggling. And Brendart grimaced. Everyone made way to the newly-wed couple, as they walked arm to arm to the other side of the castle, where the jousting lines were being set and a tournament was to be held as in celebration. All this day had been a nuisance and a waste, Brendart thought. He had just been told the night before that many knights were coming in order to honor the princes’ union in a great tournament. There were more pressing matters to be taken care of than to have a bunch of dirty lowborns roaming free about the castle, when they could be fighting Arnor’s troops off from Lorvanar. The exorbitant amounts of gold wasted in wine and food could be better put in use hiring Azbanthyllian sellswords, who were said to be the best in their sport and just one of them rivaled with five easterners. Or from Rhondaval, at least. Chances were the company of mercenaries the king had hired were dead by now, so that had been a squander. Yet again, his father would not listen to any reason Brendart would try to shove in him.

“You will understand when you take the crown,” the king had told him in his chambers, when Brendart had gone and try to oppose the marriage in feeble attempt. “Wars are not just won with a sword in hand. You have to know to the words well. Pretty words, gifts and entertainment will turn many to your side if arrayed correctly on the table.”

“Is that why you are not fighting Arnor yourself?” Brendart said. “So you can play with ‘words’ and ‘entrainment’? Those seem craven words, fa—” The king slapped him with half a closed fist. He did not say another word to him since then.

The welt appeared the next day, and throbbed incessantly. Brendart took a hand to his cheek and an ironic smile appeared. He turned to his lady wife.

“Are you excited for the jousting, my lady?”

The princess was taken aback, surprised by the sudden interaction. It took her a few seconds to find her tongue. “There is no bigger excitement than me being your wife,” she said, yet her tone denoted all the opposite. She pressed her hands and did not speak more.

Many people greeted them and congratulated them. All of them wishing for Ellth’s blessing to befall on the new couple. From all the nobles, one stood out the most. She was tall, thin, her red was hair tied in a braid, laced gold and green. Her attire was of a dark green as the forest ground, and a big emerald, framed by many tiny citrines shimmered on her neck that highlighted her sharp cheekbones. She had cunning eyes, the kind earned with age and experience. In the crook of her arm she carried a small lump covered in blankets, and she was so intently speaking with a lesser that did not noticed the couple’s approach. With her other hand she covered her mouth each time she giggled as whe spoke with the other three other lady’s she was accompanied with. Her manners so polished she treated everyone the same and with such courtesy.

“Hello, aunt.” Brendart said once they were near. She turned and her brown eyes glimmered when posed on Brendart and his wife.

“I will have to talk with you later, my dear Alerya. I must congratulate my nephew and his lady wife,” Ellarea Aldermont apologetically told the lady. Lady Alerya bowed her head and left. The duchess hugged Brendart with her free arm and then hugged Ardinette, carefully not to squeeze the pile of blankets she carried. “Brendy, dear,” she stopped and chuckled. “Ah, I think I should not call you thus in front of your wife. My apologies, my prince.”

Brendart smiled. “You know you are an exception, aunt. You have always been. How is little Valy?”

She uncovered the blankets revealing the baby’s face. He slept tenderly, as one without duties should. “He is doing well. He is strong and is growing fast. He will be as strong as his father, and taller. The physician told me he has good bones… Oh dear!” She gasped and rubbed Brendart’s cheek. “What happened to your face? Your pretty, pretty face…”

“A sparring incident. Nothing much.” Brendart improvised.

Ellarea Aldermont squinted.

“Well, I hope the doer of said incident was punished. Hitting a prince… unforgivable!” she took a breath, letting herself calm down before continuing. This time she addressed Ardinette. “Dear, my nice. I must borrow your husband for a while. Do I have your permission?” The princess nodded. “Wonderful. Could you take care of Valy? He is not as bothersome as many toddlers are.” She handed the baby without a response. “This should help you to train for when you bear your own.”

“Wait for me in the stands. I will not take long.” Brendart Manthyr said.

They left the princess standing among the crowd with the baby cradled in her arms.

Many bowed their heads as the prince and his aunt passed by, accompanied by a small “my prince, my lady,” or a “your highness, may the Kin watch over you.” Ellarea Aldermont seemed as regal as would a queen, her frown always high and a carried proud look on her face worthy of a lioness, always wearing a gentle smile, nodding and hand gesturing to each addressing.

They took one of the trails that lead to the Garden of Mirrors. To the sides the hedges had grown to the point that the tops closed in forming a tunneling bower which passed under the battlements. The garden took its name for the many fountains that lay in it. All linked by a number of winding paths that stemmed from the main fountain, and hidden in a dense man-made forest. In the two years Brendart had lived in Greatkeep he had counted over a dozen fountains, but have heard tales that there were as many as fifty, all differing in size and shape. Some as big as a pond with a statue of an old forgotten king in its center. Others small like puddles and only a gargoyle with water flowing from its mouth.

The garden was famous for the privacy it conferred, and it was easy to get lost in it if someone did not know it well. Handmaidens in love with soldiers would flee into the garden and do their private businesses, as Brendart would often hear moans and giggles coming from the darkness those nights he could not sleep and walked about the castle. He always found it amusing to toss a stone in one of the fountains and startle the couple, watching them try to run and hide and trip over on roots with their breeches to the knee.

Brendart and his aunt strolled down a slanted cobbled path that turned into a small flight of steps. At the bottom the path widened and one of the fountains splayed, shadowed by the forest’s canopy.

“That welt,” Ellarea Aldermont said in a serene tone of voice. She said and let a small silence come between them. A leaf fell on her bare shoulder and she brushed it off with a delicate gesture. “How did it truly happen?”

“I told you. A sparring incident. I did not strap my helm correctly and…”

“You can either try again with a better lie or you can tell me the truth, nephew.” She said not looking at him. Something on the water’s surface had her attention.

“And Mirkenth stroke when I was dodging. The helm tilted as I moved and uncovered my cheek.”

“Must have been a very bad helm then.” She giggled with the innocence of a child. “A tilting helm? You have always been a lousy liar, Brendart. Ever since little. You always had a twitch in your voice. But the stories were always the best part. Now, how did it happen?”

Brendart felt caged and lowered his gaze.

Ellarea sighed and sat on the fountain’s basin, beckoning Brendart to do the same. “Your father has always been a difficult person, and since your lady mother’s death he has only found solace with the cups.”

Brendart scoffed.

“He was not drunk, aunt. Not this time. I called him a coward.”

“My boy…” There was a tone of compassion on his aunt’s voice this time. The way she changed her way of speaking was something Brendart always admired. “You are too honest for your own good. Why did you call him that?”

“Because he is!” Brendart erupted, for a moment the garden was filled with anger, but it rapidly returned to its usual serenity. “He is always away from where the real conflict is.” He shook his head as he thought of it. “He sent our troops to be slaughtered while he is playing drunk leagues away, safe within castle walls. It is just as that night, aunt. He left my mother and I to die back in The Olmant as he courted with petty nobles in Greatkeep. I had to face Arnor alone. We barely had men to defend the castle. It was a miracle I survived.” The two went silent for some time, letting the wind and the chirping of the birds fill in. “He is a coward, aunt. All the gold he spent on this bloody celebration well could have built weapons, hire armies…” He turned a little more reserved at the end. “And now he uses me to his own interests.”

Ellarea nodded. She looked absentminded as her eyes were focused on nothing in particular somewhere amongst the trees. Her sigh was as loud as the wind.

“That night was truly a disgrace,” she said. “But there was no way to know that news would reach Arnor that fast. Nor way to know that he’d travel south with the son of Ryvian Langarde by his side.” Ellarea gently grabbed Brendart’s chin and examined the bruise. “Well, it does not seem that serious. Should only stay for a couple of days.” She said and let go. She was silent for a few moments, now admiring the ripples in the water as the warm wind caressed them. Brendart was intent on the treetops, watching many colored birds flying from bough to bough. “I think your father knows what he’s doing.” She continued, “It is what us Manthyrs do, after all.”

Brendart arched an eyebrow.

“Why do you think so?”

Ellarea sighed and moved her braid to fall over her shoulder and began to stroke it, her hands in a delicate rhythm. “House Manthyr for generations have played under the table. We know things and don’t let people know when the time is right. Hence comes our sigil, nephew. We are vipers, one head biting while the other listens, with words and knowledge as our venom. Were it not that way, we would still be holding the throne in the name of Arnor. Not holding the throne for ourselves. But in the way, you must remember, many sacrifices had to be done in order to achieve such an end.” Trumpets sounded in the distant, signaling the start of the of the tournament. “Oh, Ellth, just as I found myself enjoying some quite. Shall we go? It would be a shame to miss the contestants’ presentations.”

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With that said they made they way to the lists. They walked the winding paths as the trees’ shadows drifted about them. When they exited the Garden of Mirrors swirls of nobles walked the yards. Ellarea walked with straight back and ahold of Brendart’s arm. She swiveled her head as if examined one and each of the guests’ faces. She pulled Brendart closer.

“Do you know, by any chance, who those two are?” Ellarea pointed out with her chin. Some paces ahead a couple walked hooked by the crook of their arms. The man squat and bent, his bald nape folded in wrinkles. His garments were of a dull brown. But the woman… She was almost two heads taller, and her hair hung loose in a cascade of gold that covered a dress the color of wine.

“I know that is Darioll Estervalt from Harrowport,” Brendart squinted as he saw the couple blend with the multitude that made their way to the lists as well.

“And that is his betrothed, Aylanna Ashtenford.” Ellarea filled in.

Brendart rose an eyebrow.

“Lord Normad’s daughter? Isn’t she almost a two decades younger than Estervalt?” Brendart had not seen Aylanna ashenford since he was but a boy. She was a merry girl back then, two or three years older than Brendart.

Lady Ellarea slightly grimaced and looked up to the sky. “Beauty, innocence and carelessness. All men love that, especially the older ones. Makes them feel younger and powerful as they once were.”

Brendart took a deep breath and stretched his neck.

“To the point, aunt. What are you trying to tell me with all this?”

Ellarea giggled. “Patience, dear. I am getting there. You see, a man as old as he, is to have many wives in his lifetime. He has married eight times now. All of them young and pretty as the last. And they all have died.”

“Eight wives, all young, have died? I would have thought it the other way around. Unless…” Brendart half-squinted, suspiciously. “Aunt, are you saying he’s killed them?”

His aunt quickly covered his lips with one of her long fingers to shush him, jokingly looking over her shoulder. “Careful. No one really knows, but all of them die months after the wedding. He goes to The Mainland and roams about the southern kingdoms for a season or two, wooing women, speaking with lords… Aylanna, has never been married. Ashtenford has good amount to offer and good amount to gain with a coastal city so close to the Mainlands. When the war is over, there will be nothing but wealth to come for the two.”

As the lists approached the rumbling of hoofs on soft soil came first as many knights practiced their tilting, along with the din of swordplay that ringed farther in the sparring arena. There were four sets of stands surrounding the list field. Ones were set to either side of the lists, covered by a mosaicked canvas of blue and white, reserved for all the nobles that have come to honor the wedding. While the other two, smaller stands were gold and reserved for the newly-wed couple and the king’s family.

“I know things about Darioll that he does not know I am aware of.” She continued in a peaceful tone, but loud enough to make herself clear over the noise. “The same way your father is hiding this marriage from Arnor. This wedding is piling his venom for when the bite is thrown. You have to learn not to waste yours.” She began in a more frolic manner as they reached their seats, when they saw the princess sitting with Brendart’s cousin sitting on her lap. “You are part of your father´s game, but your part could be worse. You are married to a lovely young woman. You should enjoy yourself in the meantime.”

“Only if she is a good fuck.” Brendart said defensively.

“She’ll learn.” His aunt shrugged, letting it slide. “If you want a good fuck go to a brothel. If you want to play politics then even a sow is good game, your grandfather used to say.”

He cackled.

“I am glad Ardinette is no sow.”

“At least this time.” She said smiling, but the smile faded as soon as it appeared. Brendart stopped to wait for his aunt when she slowed down. “There is, however, one more thing I will tell you.” Ellarea regarded the princess in silence from afar. A knight had stopped his galloping to speak to her from bellow the stands. Ardinette Arnor delicately covered her mouth and giggled. Brendart could see the hint of a blush on her cheeks. “Be weary of her. She is a quiet one, and those are the most dangerous. She may be your wife now, but she’s still an Arnor. No matter how well you treat her, in her eyes you are an enemy.”

Little Vaylen wriggled in joy when he saw his mother approach, which served as hint for Ardinette to turn to them. Even though she was full of joy, Brendart could perceive a small trace of light fade from her eyes when he approached.

“O dear, dear, did you behave?” Ellarea said as she took hold of the infant. “Dear niece, I hope he hadn’t caused you any trouble.”

“Hardly,” Ardinette said. “He is a beautiful child.”

Ellarea smiled and said, “I am glad. Well, nephew, niece. I must go with my brother. I need to make sure he has not walked into any mishap. His drinking habits are somewhat delicate, as you may know.” With a kiss on both of their cheeks, she turned in a silken swirl and made way to the other end of the fields.

“I see you were not lonely at all, my lady.” Brendart said with his hands to his back. “May you introduce us?”

Ardinette hesitated, but then found the will to say, “He is Sir Ailon Mortower. He is competing today, and he is one of the favorites to win the main price.”

“I can proudly say,” Ailon Mortower intervened, “that I have more wins than loses in the lists throughout all my years.” Whatever that means. He looks young, very young, thought Brendart. It was hard to tell his complexion under his armor. It was of good quality, and is cape was of a thick purple with a large white prowling fox sewn on it. His lance rose high, striped white and purple, and his shield proudly showed the same image as his cape. His hair was long to the shoulder and his eyes were slanted in a way that gave him a feminine air. His voice was smooth and educated. “And I have won many a tourney. Twenty seven, if I can recall correctly.” He then bowed his head, ashamed. “My apologies, your highness. I spoke without any leave.”

“There was no offense taken.” Brendart lied. “Your record is quite impressive, I must say. Ailon, am I right? Where do you come from and which house do you serve?”

“Yes, your highness. Ailon, named after The Great Bard. And, as I was telling your lovely wife”—he bowed his head towards the princess as he said this. Ardinette grinned and returned the gesture,—“I am in service of Lord Barnwell. And I was born and raised in the Westmark province. I am the youngest son to Aelstern Mortower, count of Marshmoat.”

Brendart tapped his lip with a finger. “I have never heard of him. Thank you, sir Ailon, for taking care of my wife in my absence. You can take your leave now, we will be rooting for you.”

The knight bowed his head once more and pulled the reins of his destreir. The horse pranced in small steps, as if dancing, and bowed its head as well. The princess let out a small laugh and shyly covered her mouth again, the blushing giving her life once more. Brendart remained stoic. This bitch never smiled during the ceremony, he thought, never smiled or said a word. In a cloud of dust Sir Ailon Mortower of Marshmoat turned his horse around and galloped to the end of the field.

Brendart then seated beside his wife.

The princess was excited as a child, forgetting her old self less than half a day earlier. Eagerly she asked what colors belonged to which house, what the meaning behind their sigils were. Brendart answered all of those he could, for many of them were unknown to him, the same way he did not know about where Marshmoat was, or who those Mortowers were.

“Do you think Sir Ailon will do well?” The princess asked, clasping her hands and intent to the ramming knights.

Brendart shrugged.

“Who knows? A tourney of higher status brings higher competition. Lowly contests in lowly lands are something completely different. I do not doubt he’s won as many a tourney as he says, but I wonder the kind of opponents he contested with.”

As for his surprise, Sir Ailon did exceedingly well. When he appeared his caped flowed behind him as the wind rose. His helmet was magnificently shaped into the face of a fox with its ears leaning back as if in hunting. A piece like that could have a value of more than twenty gold, and under the falling sun it gleamed as if it were wrought in gold itself. Sir Ailon cantered his horse and stopped at the list’s end, waiting for his opponent to make his appearance. When the knight showed there was nothing special about him, but even if his armor was not as ostentatious as Sir Ailon’s, he made it up for his good size and build. He was twice as big, and his horse had been chosen to put up with such a burden. His lance was red and gold, and there were no sigils to be shown and wore no cape. It was not uncommon for hedge knights to enter royal tournaments to prove themselves in combat and listings in hope for some lord to take them in.

Everything rumbled as they galloped and clashed. The spears caromed on their armors. Once, twice. Spears broke in splinters. And in all this time the princess clapped and bellowed in excitement. It was until the fifth encounter that Ailon’s opponent’s fell from his horse, and the fox knight was proclaimed the victor.

The princess sat down to recover her lost breath. She grinned ear to ear. “Don’t you think he is very good? No wonder why he is one of the favorites. Do you think he will fare as good tomorrow?”

Brendart sighed.

“I don’t know, but I would like to know who crafted such an armor.”

Knights clashed all day long, and when the wind began to rise and clouds began to gather the sun was already set. It was then when the King Bodreg Manthyr decided to conclude the tourney’s first day, where Ailon ended up being one of the top participants. Ardinette told Brendart that he had listed for tomorrow’s melee as well.

Everyone moved to the throne room. Brendart and Ardinette jostled through to their seats behind a long table that had been set at the end of the hall.

From the entrance a blue carpet with golden edges led to the dais between two rows of arches where the double-headed snake of Manthyr hung proudly. Below the throne two long wooden tables had been placed to either side. There was a group of bards huddled in a corner with their instruments and a generous crowd merrily dancing, with pitchers high to the rafters. “Dance all, dance with joy! From when the Sun rises, ‘till the Moon shows! And when she does we’ll dance some more!” they sang.

The smell began to hover from the kitchens into the hall as the food began to move. First they served the onions with salted honey and sausages, then the stew and finally the main plate of spiced boar was served. It took one bite for Brendart to know how hungry he was, as for part of the ceremony consisted for the couple not to eat a thing since the night before, to remain as clean as when brought to the world.

All night lords and ladies approached Brendart’s and Ardinette’s table, congratulating them and presenting them with gifts. They gave the princess gowns and attires; others came with spices from Rhondaval; they received two beautiful palfreys, a mare and a horse; books and scrolls; but it was lord Jexter Barnwell who outstood from all the rest.

“My prince, my princess,” he told them. “I can’t tell how much of an honor it is for me to be in your presence. This is for you, my prince.” He unfolded a small pack of oilcloths and presented them with a dagger.Princess Ardinette gasped, mesmerized by its sheen and beauty of the sheath and hilt, and Brendart almost gaped. When unsheathed, the blade was so polished like a mirror, and the golden cross-guard was shaped in two snakes that coiled over the grip, from blade to pommel. “A two-headed snake sword for your house,” he said proudly, “you can see well that it has four sapphires, one for each eye.” He pointed out as he handed the dagger by the blade.

Brendart reached for the for the knife and carefully took it by the hilt. Light flashed on its steel. Brendart examined the dagger and its every detail. The scales were almost lifelike, and stars glimmered within each domed sapphire.

“It was made to resemble the crown, my prince. To go in pair…”

“I can’t express with words how beautiful this crafting is,” said Brendart putting the dagger in the ebony scabbard and placing it on the table before him. “It seems you have many experienced smiths back in the Westmark.”

Lord Jexter smiled, showing a row of yellowish teeth. He was not as tall as Brendart, but he was a few years older. His beard was closed and well taken care of, and he wore a laced leather jerkin the color of wine accompanied with a feathered cap. He was prone to show a lot of expression with his body each time he spoke.

“Ah, not just experienced, but the best there are, my prince. Yes.” He said and bowed. “We have the best smiths in all of Lorvanar, maybe in all Akrevann. The Westmark, as you know, borders the Arrion Line and those mountains have the best iron. There are hundreds of mines, and the smiths have perfected the craft over the course of hundreds and hundreds of years.”

“I see. I saw one of your knights sporting a beautiful armor in the tourney. Was it the smith who shaped said armor the same who crafted this blade?”

Jexter Barwell pondered the question for a heartbeat. “I could not tell, my prince. There are many smiths at the castle, all of them as good as the one that stands beside. But I do know what knight you talk about. Yes. Sir Ailon Mortower. A young man of ten-and-eight with a lot of promise.”

Brendart suppressed a grimace. He spotted the purple knight among the crowd, leaned on one a pillar with a horn of ale in his hand, jesting and laughing with his fellow knight brothers.

“Thank you, lord Barnwell. I will cherish this sword. It shall become an heirloom of House Manthyr since now on.”

“I will be honored, your highness.” Jexter Barnwell bowed again, left and mingled in the crowd.

The feast went on, and Princes Ardinette had returned to her sullen self. The gleam in her eyes had vanished, and Brendart had noted how she often called for the page to fill her cup. She would not eat and let the boar go cold and untouched.

The music stopped and the multitude went silent “My most honorable, beloved, beautiful guests!” The king called from the seat beside Brendart. He stood from his chair, keeping a hand on the armrest to keep steady. The words came out with effort, the stains of wine on his coat made evident where his attention had been all this time. “I am glad and… I am glad you are all here having a great time. But it is time now to make this an official ceremony! For my son is happily married, and now I have gained a daughter! It is time for the consummation!”

Everyone in the hall cheered but Ardinette. All the color from her face had washed, her were arms tight around her. Looks like you did not have enough wine, dear, Brendart thought humorously.

Bards and guests resumed their dancing and singing, but this time the tune had changed to a merrier one and the words were full of obscenities. The singer danced as a fool around the couple, then the harpist joined him, and then the fiddler. Soon all the host of guests did the same. “O my lady fine and fair, would you tonight be my mare?” The bard sang. The harpist retorted in a mocking woman’s voice. “My lord, my lord, please mount me hard! Break my cunt but not my heart!” Everyone laughed. Brendart’s father smiled, drunk in his seat, clumsily clapping to the tune.

“Come, let us get this over with.” Brendart told the princess and held her from the wrist. She was reluctant to stand. Brendart jerked stronger, making her spill the wine on her white gown. The guests were laughing and japing. “I said come.”

When Ardinette stood she was trembling, ever word sung in the hall shrunk her more and more.

“P… please.” Her voice was a silent breeze in a tempest of bellows. “D-don’t… don’t make me do this. Don’t make me go…”

Brendart looked at her, raised her face by her chin. She was too scared to be crying, but her blue eyes were crystalline. “I am not making you do anything. You are fulfilling your duty as a princess. Now let’s go!” He ended losing his composure.

The prince dragged the princes across the hall, and then up the stairwell that climbed the east tower. “No! Please,” Princess Ardinette yelled and tried to wrestle free, “I beg you, please. No, no! NO!” But Brendart would not let her go. The mob behind pushed the couple as they kept their singing and their laughing.

They arrived to the chambers and the mob locked the doors behind the couple. The chandelier swung with a breeze that came from the crack in the shutters. Brendart could not tell when the rain had started.

“Get on the bed.” Brendart ordered, but Ardinette did not move. She remained still, mouthing a shapeless prayer with her back against the door. From the other side came the muffled merriment of guests. Brendart sighed. “Are you and idiot? Did you not hear? I said get on the bed.”

He reached for her and clasped her by the arm. Just then

Ardinette reacted. She kicked and squirmed and jerked, but Brendart was stronger he pushed her to the bed. Brendart’s heart raced as he shoved onto her, trapping her.

“No!” Ardinette cried. She scratched his face, writhed.

“No?” Brendart said, agitated, as he undid his breeches. He tore Ardinette´s dress to rags. “Would you prefer me to be Ailon, don’t you? Sir Ailon the swamp knight!” Ardinette put effort when Brendart pushed her legs wide. His cock was hard, so hard it hurt. And his breathing was heavy. He was angry, but most of all, he wanted her. “You just need to imagine. Close your eyes, think it is Ailon, you fucking whore!”

He felt her sex on his, but the princess kicked him off in the distraction. It was a greater pain when she slapped him with a closed hand in the ear. She managed to get free and tried to run to the door, but Brendart grabbed her again, pulled her. He got hard again, grabbed her by the neck and pressed. The princess gasped, and Brendart pushed slowly, feeling the blood as he broke in.

“P… please…” Princess Ardinette wheezed, eyes welling, her face turning vivid red. “You… it hur… hurts…” She gradually stopped resisting, and Brendart released his grip. Ardinette began to cry as Brendart rammed. Brendart felt her breasts, her hips. She’s so beautiful… he thought as his tongue found her small, pink nipples. And she’s mine… no one else’s.

The peak came closer, closer, and then he felt it down his spine to his soles as his seed filled his woman’s womb. He moaned and let his body rest on hers.

He rolled to a side and sat on the edge of the bed, then reached for his breeches. Ardinette retrieved to a corner and huddled as she hid her face, silently crying. Blood had trickled down and puddled .

Brendart buttoned his shirt. On the other side the music had ceded, and from the windows the rumbling thunder was heard.