Ariella

xi. Whore

She never sees her son again. Alastair makes no move to show him to her, and she does not ask. Their lovemaking falls apart, slowly becoming less of a novelty. For him, at least. He goes to her bed out of duty now, then leaves her without a word. And no matter what scented oils she rubs into her skin, or how she pleasures him, she can tell he is losing interest. And that frightens her more than she can say. She feels used, betrayed, and now often finds herself thinking of ways to bring about his downfall. To show the world what a callous man he really is.

True, he never promised to marry her, but it was the honorable thing to do, wasn't it? And after all this work, her efforts, bearing a son for him (which he should have been grateful for-his own wife could not provide him with a child, after all) he could not bear to so much as look at her.

Once Ariella returns to court, she hears the rumors, clandestine at first, then jubilant with truth, that Lady Angila is pregnant again. So he has been visiting his wife's bedchamber.

Indeed the rumors are true, for within a week, Angila bears a son of her own, whom she calls Plutarchus Saernor Cielaré. But fate, it appears is merciful, for as soon as the child is born, the blue-eyed beauty, fragile as always, succumbs to the pains of her labors.

Ariella is more happy about this than she can say. Angila's death now frees him from his shackles and now, now it will happen. She will give him time, of course. They cannot afford to marry hastily-it would be most improper, when Angila is not even fresh in the grave. So she waits, a month, two. And still no offer is made, though they make love in her chambers still.

And then it all changes, when she spies him one afternoon making a detour down a narrow hallway. She would not make much of this, except she knows who occupies those particular palace apartments.

A sick feeling fills her. Without a word, she throws on her cloak to hide her face, and follows him, careful to walk a few paces behind lest he notice her.

Valarys steps out of the red door. Age has worn on her already-she is not as thin as she once was, her red mouth droops at the corners, and her neck sags into folds. But her black eyes are as wicked as ever, and when her smooth white fingers run across his arm, he appears as fascinated as any of her lovers. With barely a word, they disappear behind the door.

Furious, Ariella creeps toward the door and presses her ear against it, not caring, for once, about how empresses never eavesdrop. She must hear it for herself. He wouldn't do this to me. He wouldn't.

There is the swish of silk skirts, then a trill of pretty laughter from Valarys. Then there are moans, and thumping, and a raw gasp Ariella knows before has escaped her own lips. Her cheeks burn with shame: She has never thought to stoop so low, as to eavesdrop on the love lives of her advisors.

But then again, none of my advisors has ever betrayed me before.

So a perverse impulse keeps her rooted to the spot, forces her to listen to Valarys say, "Isn't that better?"

"Better than what?"

"Ariella. Angels, to think you fucked her. What was it? Certainly not her body, that's for sure."

"It was nothing," his voice answers rather harshly. "Simply politics."

"Ah, but she didn't see it that way, I wager. She probably thought it was love, or some ridiculous notion. Poor Ariella-always the afflicted, never the affliction."

"What do you mean?" he says warily.

"Ever since we were girls, she's been quite infatuated with you. You sleeping with her-it's probably the best thing that ever happened to her. With a face like that-"