Page 18 of The Castle & the Cloister

“Excellent! And the queen is well?”

“Well in body,” the boy said with a nod. He hesitated for a moment before carrying on. “But there’s been some upset. Matria Dolenza sent a wet nurse, from her own cloister. The Chief Physician’s in a temper about it, and the queen’s ladies are scolding. Her Majesty put them all out and will only have the new wet nurse with her.”

Orden’s grin immediately became a frown. “That’s not like Ari. Sheknows her duty, and how I feel about Dolenza’s women. Send word that I want the soria dismissed and a proper nurse found.”

The page shot Orden a look, and there was almost a hint of disapproval in it. Certainly, a glint of canniness lit his eyes. “There was a proper nurse. Her Majesty picked one out herself from among the minor noble families. But she bore two children today—your son and heir, and a little princess. The girl was stillborn.”

Ah. That would have upset Ari badly. Not an excuse for her behavior, but an explanation, certainly. Stillbirths were common enough and did not seem worth fretting over to Orden—the waste of time and energy in suffering a pregnancy that came to nothing must be irksome, but children died every day. At least with a stillbirth, one hadn’t grown attached. Ariana had fine sensibilities, though—far more so than Inver women, who rarely grieved such losses. Ari, by contrast, had slipped two pregnancies early and mourned them both deeply. Putting aside Celina had been even worse—for a brief time, Orden had been afraid his queen might die of the loss.

He would tolerate Dolenza’s emissary for Ariana’s sake, Orden resolved, feeling generous. He had his heir, his queen was delivered from her trial, and whatever helped Ariana back to good health was worth an irritating reminder of how Raea’s cloister steadfastly withstood Inver rule.

“Tell Her Majesty she may keep the nurse,” Orden said to the page. “And that she’s done very well, and I will come to her as I may. Tell her not to fret about the lost child—there will be others, if she wishes.”

The boy’s mouth tightened. Somehow, Orden had displeased him. Imagine that—a king, displeasing a page. Perhaps not castellan, then. Perhaps a page in perpetuity, kept in his position long after all his fellows were promoted. But displeased or not, the boy obeyed at once, bowing before haring off with his message.

“I have a son and heir,” Orden announced in an expansive voice, loud enough for all gathered in the courtyard to hear. The guards sent up a full-throated cheer and a handful of nobles passing through the forecourt stopped with pleased gasps. “Gaius, make that water butt a cask of ale. No, better yet, I’ve a barrel of summer wine in the cellar that was laid down the year I was born. Have it brought up, and we’ll toast Honoria’s new prince.”

More cheers. Orden’s grin was back, and not even the soft, silken voice of his spymaster could dampen the joy of this moment.

“Most would save a choice vintage like that for their royal guests this evening,” Lucian said, appearing at Orden’s side. He was a small, neat man of indeterminate age, who’d been spymaster to Orden’s father but changed allegiance without compunction when Orden began the bloody rise to power Inver tradition demanded. “They would believe such a fine wine is wasted on common guards who haven’t the palate to appreciate it.”

“And you’d agree with them, I suppose.” Orden cast a sidelong glance at Lucian. The man was a necessary evil, but not one he relished enduring.

“I did not say so, Majesty,” Lucian prevaricated. “I only warn you what others might think.”

“And are you interested in whatIthink?”

“Always, Majesty.”

A snake, Orden thought with distaste. But best to keep a snake within sight. It was dangers unseen that posed the greatest threat. “I think that it won’t be Gileta of Song Royale or Afon of Caervallion or Corrin’s Arbiter and Arbitress who keep my son safe. His life won’t rest in their hands each and every day. Itwillrest in the hands of his guard. They are the most important alliance he can possibly make.”

“Did they keep your father safe?” Lucian asked in his soft voice. “Or your sisters or your brothers? No one is truly secure on this mountain, Majesty, and we would all do well to remember it.”

Not for the first time, Orden imagined throttling the spymaster with his bare hands. He could do it from the very throne on an audience day and no one would object. But Lucian, unfortunately, had manifold uses, and made certain that he was always needed by his sovereign.

Orden’s wine was brought out and the barrel tapped, the guard loudly toasting their king, their queen, and their new prince’s health. Into the clamor, a runner appeared, bringing news for Gaius.

“Gileta’s nearly here,” Gaius informed the king. “The Arbiter and Arbitress have joined her retinue, but there’s no sign of Afon yet. Shall I have the guard fall back in?”

Orden surveyed them indulgently. “No. Leave them as they are. Let Song Royale and Corrin see what a kingdom secure in its line ofsuccession looks like. And let Gileta remember that there’s more to Honoria and the Invers than warfare, though she’s so incensed that we plan to engage Caervallion again.”

“Very well, Majesty.”

Gaius bowed, and Orden watched him go.

“Do you see that?” Orden asked Lucian. “Gaius thinks I’m wrong. He wants the guard in formation to show them off best, but he’d never question my judgment. Why is it that you question my judgment, Lucian?”

A cup of wine had materialized in the spymaster’s hand, though Orden had not seen him fetch one or summon it from a servant. Smiling, Lucian took a sip.

“A very good vintage indeed, Majesty. Only fitting, as the year of your birth was good for all Honoria. Do you know, I remember seeing you as a babe in arms and thinking yes, this one will be king.”

And then I made you so.

The implication hung unspoken between them, and Orden shifted his weight before walking away without so much as a parting word. He did not owe Lucian courtesy. All he owed the man was a high rank and survival. Lucian ought to consider himself lucky to have the king’s protection—power and safety were infrequent bedfellows at Inver court, as the spymaster had just reminded Orden.

At the head of the courtyard, the gates to the lower city opened. Silver bugles sounded a cool, melodic fanfare, and Gileta’s retinue swept in.

They were on foot. The royal party from Song Royale was always on foot, since the battle summer in Corrin during the third year of Orden’s reign. It was Gileta’s way of protesting what Orden and Afon had done—the finest hoofstock on the Hand had been bred and raised on Corrinian pastureland, and without the white mares Corrin had formerly provided to her, Gileta chose to walk.