The Reign of Trees Page 6

  When he smiled, his eyes were kind with understanding, causing her cheeks to warm with embarrassment.

  She broke eye contact and went back to her work. Before long, she stole a glance at him. He was again reading, a content smile upon his face. It may well have mirrored the expression on her face, as she felt entirely peaceful—and daresay happy—sitting here with Donovan.

  The king entered the room. “Montague says you have the letters from the border.”

  “Yes. Here, father. It is good news. We have been blessed.”

  Donovan gave the parchments to the king. As he reviewed them, he let out several pleased grunts. “It is very well,” he agreed. He handed the parchments back to Donovan, and then the king turned toward Illianah. She began to stand to address the king, but he held his hand up to stop her. Then his eyes caught sight of the tapestry. His brows furrowed. He looked from her to the prince, and then back again.

  “I am sorry,” she began, “Don … Prince Henrick thought perhaps I could complete this for the queen. I mean no offense, nor disrespect.”

  “Illianah needed something to pass the time,” Donovan explained.

  “A word, please,” the king said to his son. They nodded at Illianah and left the room, but they did not go far; she could hear their voices coming from the nearby passageway. She held perfectly still and listened. “Too comfortable,” the king said.

  Donovan’s reply was inaudible.

  “You were sitting together like an old married couple.” The king’s voice grew angrier and louder.

  “We were merely enjoying a moment.” The prince’s voice increased in volume and irritation as well.

  “You trusted her with my beloved’s needlepoint.”

  “Why would I not? Mother would have approved.”

  “She is our enemy! You have given our family tapestry to the very woman with whom we are at war.”

  “We are not at war with Illianah. We are at war with her father. He is our enemy. Burchess is our enemy. Not her.”

  “You forget something, Henrick. She is married. That alone should make her your enemy. She now is a part of the kingdom of Liksland, also our enemy. You are playing a dangerous game, my son. A game where there will be no winner.”

  There was no response from Donovan; the silence in the passageway made her think that the two Henricks had left. But then the prince entered the solar and collected his parchments. Illianah tried to look consumed by her work, hoping he would not realize that she had overheard.

  “My Lady,” he said with a bow in her direction. He was leaving her, without even acknowledging that beautiful harmony they had so recently shared.

  “I am sorry if I upset the king. I meant no offense,” she said.

  “No, it is not you who has upset him.” Donovan’s eyes were no longer happy: they were again cold and hard like they had been on the day she arrived at the castle. It sent a chill down her spine. He blinked and broke eye-contact. Moments later, he returned his gaze to hers. “You heard?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she admitted shamefully.

  He merely nodded and then left the room, his footsteps first echoing in her ears and then in her heart. She sank into her seat, her heart beating heavily within her chest. Her eyes stung with tears. King Henrick wanted her to hear his exchange with his son, as the king thought she was behaving inappropriately as well. She gathered up her sewing and retreated to her bedchambers where she threw the tapestry, threads and needles on the floor. Her cheeks were hot with rage and humiliation. She stomped her foot against the rough wood floor, forcing the tears from her eyes. She would not cry over the Prince of Deltegra. He had already consumed enough of her tears.

  The king said Donovan was playing a dangerous game, but it was not Donovan who had initiated the game. She had. Intentionally. She had hoped to woo the prince—to make him fall for her again. Then he would feel remorse and no longer want to keep her as a prisoner. Her ploy was reckless and gave no heed to Donovan’s heart. But he was supposed to be the enemy and she should not care if she hurt him. Yet, the more she thought of it, she realized it was no ploy. She wanted his love. She needed it. And most likely, it would not result in her freedom. It would only make matters worse. She was lawfully married to another. Her heart should belong to Leif.

  Illianah fell to the bed. She could no longer contain her tears. She was wretched. King Henrick was right to warn his son. She could not be trusted—not when Donovan’s heart was the item of her conquest.

  ***

  The next few days passed with Illianah spending as much time in her bedchamber as possible. She only left for meals with the king and the prince. During the meals, she remained silent and aloof and again took to wearing a partlet. Donovan seemed to share her shame, as he kept his eyes away from hers and spoke very few words.

  Despite her solemnity, the castle buzzed with excitement. The battle at the border continued to fall in favor of the Deltegrans, encouraging their once meager military powers. Illianah wondered what this meant for her.

  Her answer came when she was summoned to the solar. Post had arrived.

  Donovan sat at the table near the fire. His eyes lifted when she entered the room. “You have a letter for me?” she asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

  “Yes, two actually. One from Madame Partlet. And the other from Prince Harrington.”

  She saw the folded parchments on the table and reached for the one that was clearly written in Leif’s hand. “Perhaps you would like to hear from your lady first,” Donovan said, holding out the other letter.

  “Nonsense. I will not disrespect my husband by choosing Madame Partlet’s letter over his.”

  There was something about Donovan’s eyes that was different. It was almost a look of pity that he wore. Not his own pity— but pity for her. She ignored whatever emotion he wanted to convey and grabbed the letter. She sat in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth and read:

  Illianah,

  I am deeply pained to have lost you, yet know I did not cause your imprisonment. You were to stay safely within the confines of the chapel, where no Deltegran soldier would dare to invade, yet you disobeyed orders and put yourself and Lord Braithwell—who I am told went out to rescue you—in danger. Your imprudence is the cause of your current situation.

  My duty is first to your father and the kingdom of Burchess. If I am to be king someday, I must prove my undying loyalty to the kingdom that has so graciously adopted me as one of their own. It would be well if you thought less of yourself and more of the welfare of Burchess.

  I am leading the Battle at Laencia. It has proven difficult for our troops. Deltegra is stronger and more numerous than we had ever imagined. This, unfortunately, makes a rescue impossible. Until we breech the border and are able to penetrate the strong center of the Andoradda region, you will remain a prisoner of this unjustified war. However Illianah, I know you are safe. In fact, the castle of Andoradda might very well be the best place for you now. The Deltegrans have caused much suffering upon our working class, and the situation at St. Moraine is tense. We shall soon reassert control and it will be the Deltegrans who suffer. Upon my word Illianah, you will soon be by my side and the kingdom of Deltegra will be upon their knees.

  Ever yours,

  Prince Harrington of Burchess

  Illianah was glad she had already practiced keeping her tears from Donovan. She knew if she stopped blinking, her eyes would overflow with her sadness. Or was it anger? It felt like she had just taken a knife to the chest. She would not look up from her letter, as she did not want to give Donovan any indication that she was open to having a conversation. As long as she was still reading, he would not speak to her. But the more she looked at the letter, the more the wound in her chest began to grow. Leif had admonished her for defending the village of Freidlenburg—something no other man on the premises had been brave enough to do.

  Her eyes fell to the line where he wrote that his first duty was to her father and the king
dom of Burchess. Not to her. She stifled a sob. Leif had essentially married her father. This should not have been news to her, but every night after their wedding when Leif had shared her bed, she had thought that he did, in fact, love her. He had been so gentle with her. He had caressed her skin with such delicate delight that she would often break out with goose bumps, to which he would laugh with satisfaction. She could still see the tenderness in his blue eyes: the eyes that typically looked so bold and oftentimes fierce. She had thought perhaps she would become his Achilles heel. But his letter forced her out of the foolish imaginations of her heart. He did not love her. He would never love her. He only loved power.

  She did not realize that the sound of her heart crushing was audible to others. “Princess, are you unwell?” Donovan asked.

  Donovan was the last person she would be sharing her heartbreak with. “I am fine,” she said, but her quivering voice betrayed her. She looked at him only briefly. He looked sympathetic, but she still would not divulge that she was the most unloved creature in the entire world. Even the crickets she heard outside her window at bedtime were accompanied by hundreds of their kind. There would never be just one cricket, charged with filling the darkness of the night with sound. But that was her lot. She was to be a princess—a beacon to her people—and she was to do it all alone.

  “Is there something I might do to help?”

  “Do you not think that you have done enough already?” she snapped.

  Hurt registered on his face, but he nodded and stood. “I will give you the room,” he said, bowing as he departed.

  She still would not give in to her tears. If she was the same bold woman who faced General Montague and demanded he stop his raid of Freidlenburg, then she should not be brought to tears by her husband’s cold words.

  The letter still lay open in her lap. She folded it, stood, and turned to the table which held her other letter. Perhaps she would find comfort in reading news from Madame Partlet. She would not be cold and unloving, Illianah was sure of this. Madame Partlet always had nothing but praise and adoration for Illianah.

  Donovan had left his map of the Western Corridor on the table. But it was not just any old map. It was a war map. His strategies. Several smaller pieces of parchment were placed on top of the map, indicating where his troops were located. All of his troops seemed to converge at one location: the border at Laencia. That is how the Deltegran troops were winning so mightily.

  Just then, Donovan came back into the room. He stopped, saw her hand upon his map, and then rushed toward her. He quickly rolled up the map and tucked it under his arm, making her hand feel as if he had just swatted her like her harsh governess had done, on many occasions, when Illianah’s handwriting had been illegible.

  “What are you at, Illianah?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I just … I am not spying, if that is what you are indicating. I thought we had already established that I lack the necessary skills …”

  “We both know what you just saw. You are trained enough to read a simple map.”

  It was not his words that hurt. It was his indignant tone.

  “Of course I know what I saw. I am not stupid, Donovan. You have positioned your entire army at the Battle of Laencia, making your forces seem stronger than they really are. One might say it is you who is stupid. You have left the rest of your kingdom vulnerable. I may not be well versed in war strategies, but I know enough to recognize a foolish act when I see one.”

  “It is not foolish. It is working. Your father’s army is taking a considerable hit. His soldiers are dying by the hundreds.”

  There was no holding back the tears now. “And that delights you?” she cried. “You are causing death and destruction, and you are happy because of it? You are no different from the rest, Donovan. I once thought of you as kind and compassionate. I once thought peace would be synonymous with your name.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he seemed to search for the words to say in his defense. When he spoke, his voice was feeble. “Those days are long since gone, Illianah. It is time for you to grow up and realize that we are at war. Those with compassion are those who die.”

  ***

  Illianah was a prisoner in her own bedchamber; a prisoner in her own mind. To come out of her room now would only prove to Donovan that he had control over her. She remained obstinately in bed, never dressing, never eating. She did hope that her protest against food—against life—would bring about her death and then Donovan would have to pay dearly for causing the sudden end of her life. She wanted to bring him pain in any possible way, although she did not think she could cause a cold and calloused heart to feel that which was against its very nature.

  After several days of her protest of life, he came to her door and called her name. She did not answer. “Illianah,” he said again. “Forgive me for my harshness. It is not … it was not my intent to hurt you. I am not myself. This … this situation is hard. Hard for us all.…” She wished that the kindness she heard in his voice would have been filtered out by the thick, rich wood of her door. But she would not allow his kindness to soften her heart. He could not speak kindly to her one minute and then rebuke her the next. She did not answer. “Illianah,” he again said. More words did not follow this time. She held perfectly still until she was certain that he had left.

  Her lady’s maids were gentle and doting, yet she would not give them the satisfaction of speaking to them or showing that she had any life left in her hollow heart.

  Even when she heard cheers from the courtyard and heard the declaration that Burchess had retreated, putting an end to the Battle of Laencia, she still remained in her catatonic state. Deltegra’s triumph meant nothing to her. Not even pain. She did wish to go home to Burchess, but not so long as that unfeeling husband of hers remained in her kingdom. She was truly lost. A lost soul without a body, without a home.

  The day after the victory shouts, one of her lady’s maids brought something into the bedchamber. Illianah only glanced as the maid set it down on the chest near the window. “’Tis for you,” she said. “A gift from the prince. He has sent you a letter as well.”

  “I do not want it. Tell him I will accept nothing from him, not even a letter.”

  The maid chuckled. “He said you would say as much, but I have strict orders to leave it here with you. Good day, My Lady.”

  Illianah waited stubbornly until half the day had passed before she turned her eyes in the direction of the gift. It was a stack of several different types of fabric. The top piece was black, but there was also red, green and yellow. She quickly got out of bed to inspect the fabrics, only to find that her head did not like her moving about so quickly. She sat on the floor next to the chest where the fabrics had been set and ran her hand along them. They were exquisite. The quality rivaled the finest fabrics imported from Arugua. She wondered where Donovan had found such fabrics, and wondered at his intention. She reached for his letter, only to find that it was not just a letter from him: the letter from Madame Partlet was included as well. Illianah had left Madame Partlet’s letter that day when she had hastily left the solar to get away from Donovan’s insults.

  She opened Donovan’s letter:

  Forgive me, but you left Madame Partlet’s letter open on my table and I could see that she sent you her designs. I thought you might be in need of some fabrics akin to her designs. I had these brought in from Ticugua, who had imported them from Arugua. I hope you will find them pleasing. Our royal dressmaker will be in to take your measurements this afternoon. You will need something suitable to wear to the celebratory banquet tomorrow. I do hope you will join me as my personal guest. Perhaps we can forget, if for only a moment, that we are on opposing sides of this war.

  Yours,

  Donovan

  Chapter Six

  Illianah entered the great hall late after all the other guests had arrived. She wanted to spend as little time with the Deltegrans as possible.

  Donovan’s face looked aglow when he saw her
. “Princess,” he said as he bowed. He reached out to take her hand, but she refused to offer hers, keeping it close to her side. She would not give him the honor of taking her on promenade. She expected to see anger flare in his eyes, but it did not. His smile did not diminish; in fact, he looked amused. He walked by her side as she made her way through the room toward her seat at the head of the table. The lords and ladies and other dignitaries bowed as she passed, but she did not let her eye befall on a single one of them. They were not her people. This was not her court. While Donovan had stated that she was not his enemy, she knew, however, that these people viewed her as the adversary. And she them.

  He held her chair for her, and though she wished he had not done so, she had no choice but to take the seat. She had supposed that he would sit on the other side of the table, at the king’s right, but Donovan took the seat next to hers. “You picked the yellow,” he whispered. “I suspected you would. The lady’s maids said you kept requesting a yellow dress.”

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her chin high and her eyes away from his. “I loathe yellow. It makes me look ill … as if I belong in a casket.”

  She turned her head to her left, just slightly, and saw his eyebrows furrow. Then Donovan laughed. “You hope to make yourself unappealing.” He leaned his head closer to hers and whispered, “That is impossible. You always look ravishing, no matter what color you wear.”

  Her first instinct was to stiffen and move farther away from Prince Donovan, but she did not want him to know that he vexed her. She leaned closer and matched his hushed tone. “Are you going to behave yourself, or do I need to report you to your father?”

  Donovan chuckled and his whole face smiled. Crow’s feet gathered at the corners of his eyes, showing that he was no longer the boy who had once suited her. He also showed his royal smile, something that distinguished him from the commoners who did not have the means or the need to care for their teeth.