responsibilities of one's position. You are a Wills, not the daughter of some tradesman. None of us have married on a whim, yet most of us have found contentment in our unions."She could not bear it when he spoke the truth, or at least partial truth—as close as Menwyn likely ever came. Not everyone had found happiness in their "unions" and some endured something more akin to lengthy illness, but many had found contentment.
"But I will not choose your husband, as Your Highness well knows. That decision will be made by your father. I am only here as messenger. I can tell you that the flower of the nobility will be at the Westbrook Tournament: all the other great families and all their sons. Elise," he said, suddenly dropping the sham of royal address, "childhood has run its course."This last line chilled her more than anything he had said, not because she wished to remain a child—she did not—but because everything Menwyn would require of her would be justified thus. Because she was no longer a child, because she must shoulder her responsibilities, put aside her own desires for the good of the family. She must join in this terrible illusion that they were still royalty, deprived of their rightful place. An illusion to which all things must be sacrificed.
She knew well that everything Menwyn said was deception or an outright lie, not that it would be of any use to protest. Menwyn did not much care to be reminded of his exact words from other conversations. He simply denied them. Elise sometimes thought the man so deluded that he actually believed whatever his current version of the truth happened to be.
Over the last three years it had been Uncle Menwyn pressing to have her wed—and despite his protestations, she suspected he had already chosen her groom to be, the son of a powerful man with ambitions of his own. A duke who wanted his grandson to rule even greater estates than they now possessed, perhaps even a kingdom—who could say? He would not be the first to believe that adding some Wills blood to his family's would provide the justification he needed to invade a neighbor; for, after all, Ayr in all of its entirety had once been their dominion.
Menwyn was staring at her, his brows knitted. He was a master at reading the reactions of others, at tailoring his words to the moment. She tried to make her face blank and unreadable.
"I think you shall see, Elise, that this year the young men are fairer than ever. All the ladies say so. Among them we shall find you a prince."She almost laughed out loud at this. There did seem to be an urmsviafty promising group of brutal young men in this generation. Utterly ready to fight the Renné as though the ghosts of the past rode onto the field. That was how it seemed to her. Each family was at war with the other's ancestors, those who had perpetrated the "great injustice" upon the other. The fact that it was not the present Renné or Wills made no difference. There was the perennial, unerasable injustice of the past and it must be engaged in mortal combat at all costs. If war was not, at present, possible, then the tournament would make a reasonable substitute.
Why the people of Ayr would ever want to be ruled by families so stupid she could not understand. But then, that was exactly the point: they did not want to be ruled by them. It was only a myth of the two families, who could no more give up the injustices of the past—their precious injustices— than they could surrender the dream of restoration in the future. The ultimate victory over their rivals—restoration. Better even than the utter annihilation of the other. Just let them ascend the throne again, with the other family there to witness. It would make centuries of warfare and uncounted dead seem a small price—it would be worth that ten times over.
"I simply cannot shield you from your responsibilities any longer," Menwyn said solicitously.” The family will not hear of it."A protracted silence ensued, which
"But I will not choose your husband, as Your Highness well knows. That decision will be made by your father. I am only here as messenger. I can tell you that the flower of the nobility will be at the Westbrook Tournament: all the other great families and all their sons. Elise," he said, suddenly dropping the sham of royal address, "childhood has run its course."This last line chilled her more than anything he had said, not because she wished to remain a child—she did not—but because everything Menwyn would require of her would be justified thus. Because she was no longer a child, because she must shoulder her responsibilities, put aside her own desires for the good of the family. She must join in this terrible illusion that they were still royalty, deprived of their rightful place. An illusion to which all things must be sacrificed.
She knew well that everything Menwyn said was deception or an outright lie, not that it would be of any use to protest. Menwyn did not much care to be reminded of his exact words from other conversations. He simply denied them. Elise sometimes thought the man so deluded that he actually believed whatever his current version of the truth happened to be.
Over the last three years it had been Uncle Menwyn pressing to have her wed—and despite his protestations, she suspected he had already chosen her groom to be, the son of a powerful man with ambitions of his own. A duke who wanted his grandson to rule even greater estates than they now possessed, perhaps even a kingdom—who could say? He would not be the first to believe that adding some Wills blood to his family's would provide the justification he needed to invade a neighbor; for, after all, Ayr in all of its entirety had once been their dominion.
Menwyn was staring at her, his brows knitted. He was a master at reading the reactions of others, at tailoring his words to the moment. She tried to make her face blank and unreadable.
"I think you shall see, Elise, that this year the young men are fairer than ever. All the ladies say so. Among them we shall find you a prince."She almost laughed out loud at this. There did seem to be an urmsviafty promising group of brutal young men in this generation. Utterly ready to fight the Renné as though the ghosts of the past rode onto the field. That was how it seemed to her. Each family was at war with the other's ancestors, those who had perpetrated the "great injustice" upon the other. The fact that it was not the present Renné or Wills made no difference. There was the perennial, unerasable injustice of the past and it must be engaged in mortal combat at all costs. If war was not, at present, possible, then the tournament would make a reasonable substitute.
Why the people of Ayr would ever want to be ruled by families so stupid she could not understand. But then, that was exactly the point: they did not want to be ruled by them. It was only a myth of the two families, who could no more give up the injustices of the past—their precious injustices— than they could surrender the dream of restoration in the future. The ultimate victory over their rivals—restoration. Better even than the utter annihilation of the other. Just let them ascend the throne again, with the other family there to witness. It would make centuries of warfare and uncounted dead seem a small price—it would be worth that ten times over.
"I simply cannot shield you from your responsibilities any longer," Menwyn said solicitously.” The family will not hear of it."A protracted silence ensued, which
Similar Books
