He told her that the price of mercy was a son.
The princess prayed that she would conceive the son of the monster who held her captive. She sent messages from her window to every wise woman she knew, asking for their council in the rapid conception of a son and heir. She endured her husband’s attentions, hoping that the ordeal would not last long.
Within two moons, she knew she was with child.
The mercenary, to her relief, considered the matter resolved. He left her locked in the chamber, forbade all to visit her, and vowed she would be released with the safe delivery of his son and heir. For nine months, the lady lived alone, had no maid to tend her and no friend with whom to converse. For nine months, her meals were surrendered to her through a hole cut in the door, a hole too small for her to use for escape. For nine months, she endured the restraints put upon her by her husband, knowing he pillaged the holdings of their neighbors, piled his ill-gotten gains in what had been her father’s treasury, and indulged his gluttony each night in her father’s hall. Her hatred of him distilled until it was as brittle and hard as an icicle, or a diamond forged in the core of the earth. And then, on midwinter’s eve, she delivered his son.
The boy was tall and strong, a robust babe who yelled with vigor when he entered the world. The brigand came to look upon his son and heir, but instead of pronouncing himself pleased, he demanded another.
“Life is full of uncertainty,” he informed his lady wife, even as he took the boy from her breast. “You will grant another son unto me with all haste.”
The lady cried out when her son was taken away from her, but the brigand decreed that the babe would have a wet nurse—so that his wife would be able to conceive more quickly again. She was not to see the child at all until she was pregnant again.
The lady thought she could not have despised her husband more but on that dark morning, she learned she had additional capacity for hate. Again she prayed and again she strove to do his will, and again—in three moons’ time—she conceived a child. Just as before, the brigand vowed she would remain locked in the royal chamber alone until the child was born and hale.
He lied about allowing her to see her oldest son, for he did not bring the boy or let any other bring him. The lady’s heart began to harden yet more.
Once again, the lady endured her solitude. Once again, her hatred of her husband grew. Once again, on midwinter eve, the lady delivered of a healthy son. If anything, he was stronger and larger than the first boy. She was certain she would have a reprieve and had just put the babe to her breast, thinking of what she would do first when she left the confines of her chamber, when her husband arrived. As before, he took the child from her. As before, he demanded another son. As before, the lady was left locked within the chamber, her son was given to a wet nurse, and she was compelled to endure the attentions of her cruel husband each night until she conceived.
And so the tale repeated nine more times. Each midwinter night, the lady delivered of a healthy son and her sentence was renewed again. Her hope steadily dwindled until it died. Her husband never noticed that the spark died in her eyes, that her hair lost its luster, that she no longer had any ability to smile.
When the lady was round with her twelfth child, her hatred of her husband had grown to the point that she no longer cared about her survival. It was no life, to her thinking, to be confined to one room. She had no one to love, for her sons were lost to her and her husband was a man she could never love.
It was in that year that her husband began to train his sons in the courtyard beneath the queen’s window. If he meant to impress her with their prowess, his choice did the very opposite: the lady despaired to see that her sons mirrored their father in every way. She hated that she had been the means of eleven more brigands coming into the world to pillage and slaughter. She sickened then, that autumn, and did not care whether she lost the child. So ill was she that even her husband noticed, and he tried to rouse her by complaining that her illness might affect the child in her womb. The lady did not respond.
On midwinter night, she delivered of a boy once more. This boy was smaller and more slender, but his kick and cry were just as robust as those of his brothers. If anything, she loved him more because of his size, and she tenderly put him to her breast, wishing she could nurse him for more than a moment. The brigand came to see his son and was less pleased than before. He thought the boy weak and unworthy. He decided his wife’s womb had exhausted its bounty.
“I want a daughter,” his wife said, rebellion in her eyes, and he recognized that she was prepared to fight him. The brigand didn’t care what his wife desired. He had younger and more beautiful women to bed, and he had twelve sons.
“Nurse this one then,” he said with scorn. “Make your daughter out of him. I make sons out of the other eleven.”
“I will leave this chamber,” she said when he had turned away.
“So another can bed you? I think not, lady wife. Here you have been for thirteen years, and here you will remain until your dying day.” With that, he left and locked the door against them both.
“Asshole,” Balthasar said when Alasdair stopped for breath. He considered the pizza, then took another slice, leaving three for Hadrian as they’d agreed.
“I wonder what this has to do with anything,” Alasdair said, glancing at the cover of the book again. “Sara must have thought it important to send it overnight.”
“Then we’ll get to it,” Balthasar said.
“Is there anything to eat?” Hadrian demanded from the doorway of the bedroom. His hair was rumpled, but Alasdair grinned at him all the same.
“We saved you some pizza,” he said, then stared at the ring on Hadrian’s hand. He’d noticed it earlier and had meant to ask. The single stone set in it glowed with that pearly radiance and it seemed to be even brighter than before. “Where’d you get that?”
“From my mate. She wore it on a chain around her neck.”
“Where’s it from?”
Hadrian shrugged. “She said she’d always had it, but the glow was new.”
Alasdair frowned, wondering.
“Keep reading,” Balthasar advised and Alasdair did, because his instinct was exactly the same.
Rania didn’t know where she was. She stood in a cool breeze and turned in place, wondering where she’d ended up. Had she managed to stay with the salamander? It seemed to be twilight, wherever she was, but there were no stars overhead. It wasn’t overcast either, and she couldn’t see the moon. Was she in Fae? She couldn’t hear any music or see the red glow of magick anywhere. She looked.
She realized then that she was in the middle of a stone circle, thirteen tall stones emanating a steady chill around her. At her feet, in the middle of the circle, there was a cairn. A hole, darker than dark, led into the ground.
That glittering salamander appeared suddenly from the opening and perched on the crest of the highest rock in the cairn. He was watching her, his eyes and scales sparkling as his tail flicked. She was glad she’d managed to follow him through the realms and wondered why he had brought her to this place.
If she’d thought he might tell her, she was to be disappointed.
Suddenly, the salamander darted across the ground, heading for the rocks on the perimeter of the circle. Rania followed him, not wanting to lose track of him now. He circled the base of the largest stone, the one that towered over her, pointing to the sky. On the outer side of the stone, the salamander stopped beside a dandelion in full seed, the flower head round and white. The weed was growing at the base of the stone, its roots lodged in the narrow crevice between the stone and the ground. The salamander coiled around the flower stem so that it swayed slightly, then gave her an intent look. When he bared his teeth, Rania guessed what he was going to do and what he wanted from her. She bent down and held the stem while the salamander bit into it.