Chapter 43: The Glimmer of Regret

"My Lord, I must protest!" Father Jakob exclaims, gesturing wildly with his arms in an excessive display of anger and frustration, "Scripture demands that all witches and practitioners of foul magic be executed, and you have not only spared this one, but pardoned and released him to continue practicing his black arts!"

"Are you questioning my judgment?" Reinier asks in a low, steady voice which any man would see as a warning to back down immediately and humble himself.

In his fervor, the old priest misses that warning and carries on, "It is not your place to judge on matters of Scripture!" he insists, not even softening his defiance with an obsequious 'my Lord', "It is the Watcher's will that witches be executed."

"You forget your place, priest," Reinier says, his voice grown icier as the priest's anger grows hotter, "I am the Lord here, and I decide who is executed and who is pardoned. The witch made his confession and recanted. It is done."

"But, the Watcher demands--" Father Jakob continues his protest, not recognizing the finality in his lord's tone, or even the danger his continued defiance puts himself in.

"The Watcher put out your fires with His rain," Reinier says through clenched teeth, "We all witnessed that miracle."

"The witch may have caused that rain with a spell! Or summoned a demon too make the rain!" Father Jakob persists.

"Are you suggesting, honored Father, that a witch's power could overcome the will of the Watcher even as he stood in judgment before Him?" Agneta asks in the timid tones of an inquisitive child.

The priest sighs in frustration, "Perhaps you are right, perhaps the Watcher wished us to spare the man from the flames. His confession certainly will help our cause. But releasing him and giving him leave to craft his potions and practice as a healer...that goes too far. It would be better to keep the witch imprisoned and away from the people."

"He is being watched," Reinier says, "And he knows it. If he practices any black magic, he will be imprisoned again, and face the flames."

"You say this, and yet you've given him leave to practice the healing arts."

"You do understand that I am preparing for war?" Reinier asks, wondering of the priest is truly that oblivious to all but his own interests, "A man with healing skills will be welcomed when the wounded return from battle."

"But if he uses foul magic to tend their wounds..."

"You've looked over his books yourself, the recipes for his potions and poultices come from the local flora. That can hardly be called magic," Reinier dismisses the priest's concerns with a wave of his hand.

As Father Jakob opens his mouth to protest further, Agneta steps in again, "We would be remiss to prevent a man from curing the sick or tending to the wounded," she says sweetly, "If a man with two sons gives them each a coin, and one son buries his in the ground, while the other uses his to buy a cow so that he might have milk to sell in the market, increasing his father's original coin to many coins, which son has done better by his father?"

Father Jakob pinches the bridge of his nose as he lets out a pained sigh. He was never in favor of teaching girls to read, as it only leads them to quoting the gentler Peteran passages of the Scripture and generally weakening the Faith with their womanly interpretations of Holy writ.  "Surely, that parable did not mean to include the use of witchcraft," he points out, speaking to her as he would a wayward acolyte.

"So long as he isn't making incantations or prayers to his false goddess when he brews his potions, then I say it is not witchcraft," Reinier declares, "And that is my final word on this, priest. I will not hear about this issue again."

"There's nothing wrong with him," Fransez tells his daughter, "I've examined Jean thoroughly, and there's no illness I can find."

"I'm not sick here," Jean adds, "It's father's smithy that makes me ill."

Melisenet sees the look that crosses her father's eyes and says, "I know, I had the same thought. Jean has never liked helping his father in the smithy. But he is not feigning the illness that comes over him now when he goes there. I see it for myself, he grows pale and weak the closer he is to the shop. Even at home, he is listless and barely eats. It was only as we traveled from distance from our home that he began to get his former energy back."

"This never happened before," Fransez muses, "Is there anything different about the smithy now?"

"No," Melisenet answers, "Except that it's much busier now with the war preparations, The Landgraabs want everything made from this strange blue metal they've brought with them from their homelands. Weapons, armors, even the shoes for the horses are to be made from it. Gillis has had to take on an extra apprentice and even that might not be enough, Jean is young yet, but someday this smithy will be his..."

"Perhaps there's something in the metal that affects the boy," Fransez says.

"What am I to do, then?" Melisenet asks, "Gillis cannot stop the work. The Landgraabs are the only patron we have now with the wars coming."

"I could stay where with you grandfather," Jean says with a hopeful smile.

"That might be for the best," his mother agrees, "Until the work with this metal is done..."

"It is hardly safe here," Fransez points out, "His lordship pardoned me, but I am being closely watched."

"Surely you won't be doing anything to endanger yourself or our family," Melisenet says, "Please, Father."

"Please, Grandfather, let me stay with you!" Jean chimes in, and Fransez cannot resist their entreaties.

Jennicor does not often visit Auberon in his realm, so he watches her approach with some surprise. "Winterdream," he greets her as she climbs the steps he'd formed from the rocks, all the creations of his thought, "What brings you to me?"

"These mortals who have come down from the north," Jennicor answers, "They've brought a metal with them that hampers our magic and weakens our spirit, just from proximity to it."

"The dragons have spoken of this," Auberon says, "But I had not heard of it effecting the fae in the same way. How is it that you know of it?"

"That boy you asked me to visit, his father works the metal. I have felt it's power there," Jennicor answers.

"You did not mention this before, when you reported to me what you'd learnt from the boy's dreaming," Auberon says.

"The metal was not present his house then, so I hadn't felt it until recently."

"You're saying that you've returned to visit the child?" Auberon asks, a faint accusation in his tone, "I asked only that you look into his mind the one time."

"I did as you asked, Auberon," Jennicor replies, "But I not cease to exist simply because you have no further need of me. I go where I choose, and visit whomever I will."

"Getting too close to the mortals is dangerous," Auberon warns.

"No one knows that better than you, I suppose," Jennicor replies with an enigmatic smile.

Outside, a wolf howls, and Morvyn's sleep is disturbed.

Beside him, Kelyn stirs in her sleep, turning as he rises on one to arm, to watch her in the moonlight.

"Is it morning?" she asks in breathy whisper.

"Open your eyes and see," he answers.

"It's not even dawn," she whines in complaint, "Why are you awake?"

"How could I sleep, with all this tempt me?" Morvyn answers, cupping her breast in his hand, "No matter how much of you I have, it isn't enough, and I need more." Kelyn twines her leg around his as he falls onto her breast with a voracious hunger, like a predator onto his prey, his tongue painting circles around her nipple until she groans in pleasure.

"You have all of me," she whispers, hoarse and raspy with desire as she rolls him onto his back and sits astride his thighs, "And I have all of you," she continues lowering herself slowly onto him, taking him inside her.

Morvyn had thought he'd known passion with the near endless line of lovers he'd had over the centuries, but this hunger that drives him now is like nothing he's felt before, impossible to satiate, always needing more.

She feels it too, he senses it in the way she rocks against his thighs, grinding desperately as she groans his name; she needs him the way he needs her, she hungers, as he does, to be filled.

"I've lived for tens of thousands of years before you were even born," Morvyn whispers, sighing as she rolls to his side, the sweat of their bodies slick where their skin meets, content for the moment at least, until their mutual desire flares up again,"But now that I have you, I can no longer imagine a life without you."

Kelyn smiles, playing at his lips with the tip of her fingers, "You speak like a poet," she teases, Are you certain you are not part Alfar?"

"Poetry? I just speak what I feel," Morvyn says, laughing along with her, "Maybe you are too accustomed to lovers who whisper verse in your ear."

"I lived among the Alfar for a long time, 'tis true," she says, "But I never did acquire their taste for poetry and song. Nor have I had quite as many lovers as you have, my old dragon. The mortals also have a taste for verse; perhaps you learned it from the lips of one of your lovers."

"All my lovers may as well have never existed, Kelyn. I mean that," Morvyn says, serious now, done with play, "I am yours, and there will never be another."

"And I am yours," Kelyn answers, matching the gravity of his tone with her own. Some shadow passes over his eyes, and his lips twitch, just enough that she'd notice it. "What is it, old dragon?" she asks, "You know better than to hold anything back from me. Tell what you are thinking."

"I'm thinking that I love you," Morvyn answers, "And I'm thinking about what it will mean, to be your First. Talfryn was like a nest brother to me, though we did not share a mate, our bond was that deep. And Ametair as well, though he isn't entirely a dragon, and I am no wolf, he calls me pack brother."

Kelyn bites her lips nervously, "Are you saying you want me to take the wolf as my Second?" she asks.

Morvyn shakes his head, smiling at that, "No, not at all. I'm saying...I prefer having brothers who don't share my mate. I don't want to be your First, Kelyn, if that means having a Second and Third and so on."

"I spent centuries avoiding taking even one mate," Kelyn answers, "And if I hadn't found you, I may have happily remained unmated forever. I'm not sure you could find a Second for me that I would accept. You are much more than a First, my old dragon, you are my all."

He squeezes her buttocks, a smile playing on his lips, "Then I suppose I won't waste my time looking for one," he says, sighing just a little, in relief, "There is something else," he adds, "Talfryn was my brother, we were a nest unto ourselves. Evenfall carries his child, and I must help her raise their daughter, for his sake. She is as much my nest as Talfryn was."

"Our nest," Kelyn corrects him, "Of course we'll care for your brother's child. And get vengeance for her."

"Agreed. The dragonslayer must die," Morvyn growls, the rage against his brother's killer always boiling beneath the cool surface of his demeanor.

"He dies," Kelyn  says, rising to straddle atop him again, kissing him lustily, "But not tonight."

As she had wanted, Sterren's wedding is a small family affair, and her happiness is not marred in the lightest by the absence of her aunt, who, according to her uncle, was prevented from attending due to a sudden headache, though it was obvious from him abashed blushes as his made his wife's excuses that Gwencalon's reasons for not being here had more to do with her displeasure at seeing one of her husband's family marry so low.

Though she had to invite her aunt along with her uncle, Sterren was more relieved by her absence than anything else. This day is for her and Taran alone, and for Elara and the child Sterren carries inside her, and the children she might yet bear in the future, her family, and the happiness they will share together, for as long as life lasts them.

She may never see Gothenburg again, Agneta realizes suddenly, gazing at herself dressed in the fashion of this place, her new home in the Southern countries, the sleeves tight around her arms, the skirt flowing straight in a long line. Her sister had gone away to be wed and had never returned, for that is the way of marriage.

Lady Juelina and Lady Felicia giggle and exclaim at how well the colors suit her, and how lovely a bride she will be, but their words ring hollow. They would say the same even if she were ugly. These women are not truly her friends, though she may have to spend the rest of her life in their company. She is to be married in just a few days; her mother should be here helping her choose her dress and styling her hair, not these strangers, the wives of her betrothed's men and the maid who's attended his brother's widow before she was sent off to the convent.

The glimmer of regret fades when Reinier himself appears in her mirror.

"The colors suit you," he says, the words the same as spoken by her companions, but unlike them, his appraisal is sincere. She may not be having the wedding he'd want, but the husband her father brokered for her, the man she will live with for the rest of her life, he makes up for it all.

"My lord," she stammers, and Reinier notices how she folds arms protectively over herself, "Is it the custom here to take such liberties, coming into a lady's dressing room?"

Emboldened by her smile, which belies the pleasure in his attention, despite her modest protests, Reinier takes her hands in his. "Is this your wedding dress?" he asks her.

She nods, blushing, "I thought that if I am to be the Lady here, I should adopt the local fashion."

"It looks well on you," Reinier says.

"We are all well pleased with you choice of bride, my Lord," Lady Felicia cuts in, "Lady Edelina was near overwrought at the thought of you marrying that Avendale girl."

"I heard her uncle ended up marrying her off to a peasant," Lady Juelina adds, "My maid has a cousin who attends Lady Gwencalon of Avendale, and she says the lady is furious with Lord Marrec. But he had little choice, his niece is with child, and a peasant marriage was the best he could do for her."

Agneta knows the difference between idle gossip and a pointed barb, and the scowl on her betrothed's face tells her the ladies' jabs have struck him deeply.

"Do you have nothing better to concern yourselves with than the gossip spread by ladies' maids?" Reinier asks, turning his anger on the women, "Begone, all of you. I would have a word with my betrothed."

"Avendale...that is the name of one of your enemies, is it not?" Agneta asks him once they are alone,

Reinier nods, "Marrec of Avendale was the first to make alliance with the Penguilly family against me."

"And that is why you aren't marrying his niece, instead of me?" she asks, her lower lip trembling slightly.

"Marrec had sought my hand for his niece, but it was never truly a possibility," Reinier says. And it's true, as much as he had wanted it, had tried to make it happen, he'd finally come to accept that Sterren never meant to marry him at all.

Agneta catches the hint of regret in his tone, and the meaning behind the words he doesn't say. "She was your lover," she says, turning away from him, "But you could not marry her. Because of your father, perhaps?" she guesses, "Because you are being made to marry me."

"No more than you are being made to marry me, Agneta," Reinier says truthfully, "We are both of noble houses, and you know how these things are done."

"I know it well, and I came here with my father with no expectations. But, you've been so kind to me, so attentive, I had come to hope..." she draws in deep breath and exhales a piteous sob, "I am not so naive as you must think, I know how it is with men, husbands. I do not, cannot, expect that I will the only woman in your bed. But hearing this gossip about one of your lovers before we are even married..."

"Agneta, I am above everything else, a man of my word. I don't make vows just to break them. You can, and must expect that from the moment of our betrothal, I have been yours," Reinier says, turning her so that he might caress her cheek.

"How can that be true?" Agneta asks him, "Are you so inconstant that you could love this woman and then completely banish her from your heart?"

"Despite the gossip those ladies were spreading, I know Sterren of Avendale, and her uncle could not marry her off so easily to any man. If she married at all, it would be to the man who won her heart. That man is not, and never was me." It's a painful admission to make to his bride, but he owes her that truth.

"She broke your heart," Agneta whispers, realizing the full truth of what he's telling her.

Taking her face in his hands, Reinier presses his lips to hers, softly. Agneta's arms fall limp to her side, not knowing what to do, even as her lips parts beneath his and their tongues meet for the first time in a gentle dance.

Her hands finally find their use, pressing against his chest, pushing away as her lips bids his a reluctantly  farewell. "We are not yet married, my Lord," she whispers, her face glowing with a pink blush.

"You've never been kissed before," Reinier whispers.

"Certainly not," she answers, giggling slightly.

"You seemed to like it," he presses, making her blush deepen.

"I am...well content, my Lord," she sighs, throwing herself against him in a unseemly, but very warm embrace.

"Call me by my name, when we are alone," he murmurs, cradling her head against his chest, "I'm going to be your husband, after all."

"Reinier," she says, taking delight in each syllable, "My husband." 

The child Sterren is rumored to be carrying was kept out of their conversation, too delicate a topic for Agneta to mention, but it remains foremost in his thoughts. If it's true, he thinks, if she's taken his child from him as well as his heart, and given them to another man...what can he do about? Making any public claim on the child would infuriate his father and jeopardize their alliance with the Goths. Certainly, Reinbolt Goth would not be pleased to hear about any potential bastards competing with the children Agneta has yet to bear him. What Sterren has done, marrying a man apparently willing to raise the child, is for best, he tells himself, trying to reconcile himself to his loss,