Bride of Kalathan

2: Shandar

He was her brother's friend, and hers too. His father's estate bordered theirs, and she and Nairan had played together with him and his brothers and sisters ever since they were children. She had always liked him, his soft-spoken gentleness and his love of books and learning a stark contrast to her own father's brash, domineering character. He was tall and slim, his dark hair long over his shoulders, not as talented as Nairan when it came to sports, but handsome in a way very different to her stockier brother who was as fair and golden as she was. Shandar had, in the past year, been coming to visit Nairan but spending the time in the garden instead of the stables and the archery range, talking to her instead of riding or hunting or going off on some or other adventure with her brother. He had lent her books. He had written her a poem, not an especially good one, she thought, about a field of flowers, but she had been touched by the gesture and had put it in the copy of the Temple Scriptures that sat on the carved bureau in her room. She had taken it out every now and then, wondering what it meant that he had given it to her. She found herself catching his eye over the table when he stayed for dinner, looking down and blushing at what she saw in his face. And only last week he had spoken, to her great surprise, one chilly but sunny afternoon on the verhanda when they had sat wrapped up in their furs beside a brazier playing a game of parcha.

"Do you know, Nuria," he had said after they packed away the board and the small carved pieces. She had beaten him this time, although he usually won when they played. He had seemed distracted, not as focussed as usual on his strategy. "You are the loveliest girl. I have always thought so."

She had not known what to say. She had blushed, she was sure, and had not even dared to look at him after he said it, but she liked how it made her feel inside.

"And it's your birthday soon," he had whispered, as Nairan and his own younger brother continued their lively conversation on the other side of the brazier. "After that, perhaps I can speak to your father and come to visit you, instead of pretending I am here to ride horses with Nairan."

"I think I would like that," she had whispered back, her hands shaking a little in her lap.

"You would?" He sounded happy, excited. "Really?"

"Yes, Shandar," she replied, summoning all her courage to look up and meet his eyes. "I would like that very much."

But the innocence of her excitement had been short-lived. Later that evening, after Mother and Father had retired, Nuria and Nairan sat by the great fire in the parlour. She worked at her embroidery, thinking about Shandar as she stitched, glad to have the fire to blame for her flushed cheeks.

"What were you talking to Shandar about earlier?" Nairan asked, penetrating the silence with the sudden question.

"Maybe that is my business," she said, primly, although she did not really mind him knowing.

"Tell me, Nuria. Does he want to come and court you?"

"Perhaps he does."

"And do you want that?" He seemed so serious and earnest. Nuria had not thought about what Nairan would think of it, but she could not think of any reason he would object.

"Why do you sound so worried?" she asked. "I will be eighteen next week, and he is your friend. Who better to come courting than Shandar?"

"You've forgotten, haven't you?"

"Forgotten what?"

"His secret, Nuria!" he whispered, looking around him to make sure no one was listening.

"His ... oh." She put down her embroidery as she remembered. Shandar had a secret, and it was a big one. His parents knew, of course, but hers did not. She and Nairan had known for years, but they had never told anyone. It wasn't something you told. "I had forgotten."

"It doesn't matter," said Nairan. "I mean, he's still Shandar. But it won't be easy if ... you know."

She knew. If anyone found out that Shandar was a devilclaw, the consequences would be serious. He would be marked, with the narrow blue line on his left wrist, placed on a register and monitored. He would likely have to undergo a cleansing ceremony at the Temple. He would not be allowed to inherit his father's title. And he would definitely not be allowed to marry her.

"Do you still want him to come courting?"

That was the question, wasn't it? She didn't care that Shandar's terrible handwriting was bad because he had to use his right hand instead of his left if anyone was watching. She had seen how beautifully he could write with his left hand, and the pictures he could draw too, and she didn't think she believed that it was a curse from the devil, a punishment for some sin of his parents that he had been born that way. It was unnatural, she had been taught in her Temple classes. It was an abomination to God, and those affected by the curse could never be trusted. The devil would always have a hold over them. But it was Shandar – sweet, kind, clever Shandar. His very existence disproved the belief, in her mind at least. "I don't know," she said, because she really didn't. To be married to a devilclaw would be to live under the threat of discovery and ruin, and that didn't sound good to her at all. She felt a little put out, that this detail had interrupted her happy fantasies.

"He would understand if you didn't want that," said Nairan, staring into the fire. "I would understand."

Nuria did not reply. She sat quietly with her brother until he got up and said he was going to bed, then began to tidy up the threads in her workbasket. This was something new to think about. Did she care enough for Shandar that she would marry him even if he was a devilclaw? But then he was only coming courting. He wasn't asking to marry her quite yet, and she was still very young. As she put away the colourful bundles, she put away the confusing thoughts, too. They were interfering with her happiness and with the pretty memories of their conversation on the verhanda.

But then the letter came, and it didn't matter anymore. The weather was stormy and he did not come to visit, and on the morning that she stood beside the carriage sled, waiting for Pralin to finish loading her bags, she had not seen him since the day he had spoken. Perhaps she would be back after a year, not engaged to a nobleman, and he would come courting after all. But perhaps it was the end of this life and the beginning of a new one. She did not know. She was eighteen now, and on the smallest finger of her right hand she wore the delicate silver seal ring her father had given her to mark her passage into adulthood. She embraced her parents and Nairan, pulled the hood and cape that had been her mother's birthday gift tightly around her, and climbed in. She could see them waving from the steps through the tiny window, and wiped the tears from her eyes. She hadn't wanted to cry; she had wanted to be brave. She had decided the night before, as she had stroked the delicate buttery yellow velvet and white fur of the hood and cape, that she would honour her parents and be brave. She would do her duty at the palace, and if a high nobleman wanted to marry her, perhaps she would agree. It hurt a little, to think of Shandar, and of how happy he had been just a few days before. Now he would hear that she had gone, and she could not even say good bye. She did not like the thought that she would disappoint him, but she had no choice.

Her cape was so warm and pretty, and it was exciting to be flying over the snow. By evening the next day she would be at the palace. But as the sled passed the neighbouring estate and she looked out of the window, there he was, standing at the gate, his fur cap in his hand. She lifted her hand to greet him, the sight of him affecting her more than she had thought it might. In that brief second, he lifted his hand, kissed it, and held it out to her as the carriage flew past. Oh Shandar, she thought, as she sat back on the soft seat. What a pity that things could not be different. That was all the good-bye they would have, and she had not even been able to see his face.