A travelling cloak. Travelling.
A bright, precious, terrifying thought cut through the fog of shock, and her brain snapped into focus.
Two of them, now: they were travelling. Where were they going?
At the foot of the tower, six swarthy guards dressed in a rich green were seated on the lean, swift horses of the desert flanking two sad-looking mules wearing a ladies’ saddles, one occupied.
A mule.
Alanna pulled her eyes away, telling herself not to get affronted by irrelevancies. She was already sweltering in the heat at the base of the tower, her head swimming as she tried to get it to focus past the shock announcement upstairs. One of the palace priests — she couldn’t even remember his name, that showed how shot her mind was — was standing beside one of the equally minor palace officials, a roll of parchment in his hand with the imperial seal hanging from one corner. Her heart lurched. What now?
Her jailor stopped Alanna in front of the pair, and the official took the parchment, cleared his throat and read aloud in an appalling, bored monotone: “Wherefore the lady Alanna Fortuna Kjeldahl hath infecund proven; by Law of Terat, when reflecting the needful absentia of Alt Sultus Xanir Bilal Malik Tahl, the provisional contract of marriage between Alt Sultus Tahl and the lady is terminated herefrom for the remaining one-third term. Dated this -.” Alanna’s eyes focussed, glazed, on the quivering, oiled moustache of the speaker while she tried to wrap her ricocheting brain around the news that Xanir had annulled their marriage from the date of his official departure. Because he supposedly wouldn’t make it back before the year was up — there was some legal post-script in case she fell pregnant within a month of the departure date, but she hadn’t.
She had fallen pregnant after his second, secret departure.
Dazed, she swaying with the double shock, she shied back and stumbled over a trailing end of her swaddling robe when the priest pressed a henna-daubed thumb to the centre of her forehead, intoning something. Staggering over more folds, she tried to free a hand to catch the scratchy cloth sliding off her head and shoulders but she was too distracted, upset, trying to make sense of this.
It must be a move for her protection; their protection. A glow steadied her. It wasn’t like there were any people left in the palace who he trusted.
Alanna managed to steady her footing, hugging herself, one arm still trapped, one free, swallowing back tears. The silence echoed. Her skin prickled, and she looked up into open lust with both petty officials staring at the swell of her breasts under the loose linen of her shift-dress, exposed by the fallen folds of her travelling robe and enhanced by her tight arms. The priest licked his lips. Her fist clenched and she hid her breasts behind her free arm, tripping again in the damn tight material as she tried to step backwards and instead fell full length at their feet, her arm shooting out again to break her fall, breasts bouncing at the impact with the hard soil.
The predatory look in their eyes shot a shiver through her: she no longer had any status here, however nominal. A long way from home.
The priest stepped closer and cold settled in at the intent in his eyes as he stared down. The official moved up to flank him, actually rubbing his groin, and the cold morphed to anger that lit a different thrill inside her as from the corner of her eyes she saw her jailor turn his back.
Other footsteps were advancing from the vicinity of the horse-troop but she was too intent on the threat beside her, sliding backwards on her butt, finally freeing a leg. The men’s eyes gleamed at the sight of it, and her apparent fright. One licked his lips, stepping forward.
Alanna crabbed swiftly sideways, between the maids and the tower wall, while the men stomped after her, eyes eager. The maid holding the empty washbasin and jug half turned, watching with malicious eagerness while other remained downcast, unmoving, her uneasy gaze fixed on the corked slop-jar she had carried down from the tower. Perfect.
Alanna rolled, hooked a foot behind the dangling jar, and flicked it full-force to smash across the cheekbone of the damn priest and shatter against the tower wall beyond him. To her great satisfaction, both men were splattered with the contents and howled, lurching backwards.
“Hold!”, barked the unknown voice of the horseman who had been advancing on them, and Alanna completed her spin to grab the bowl from the gaping maid, smash it against the wall, and rise to a defensive crouch with a sharp shard of broken crockery held menacingly.
The horseman in green with an officer’s mark bound into the braid by his temple stopped a yard away, ignored the makeshift weapon and bowed, frowning, carefully not looking at her. “Cover yourself,” he ordered tersely.
Alanna scowled at him, steadying her breathing. He didn’t look directly at her. Behind him, the other horsemen were watching intently from atop their horses. The priest lunged forwards with a curse, and Alanna’s makeshift weapon swept to her right.
Even more swiftly, the curved sword of the desert-rider, the ghelber, whipped out and scored a shallow line across the priest’s left cheek. The fuming man leapt backwards with a yelp.
“I said hold,” the green officer said coldly, eyes flickering to the priest then back to just beside Alanna’s head.
“Cover yourself, woman,” he hissed furiously.
The nicer maid stepped forward hesitantly to lift the dragging folds from the earth and shake out the dust, folding them ready over her arm. After a tense moment, Alanna relaxed her stance, dropping her weapon and moved so that the material could be fully freed. This time, she watched what the woman was doing as she re-folded the cloth and wrapped it around Alanna, carefully tucking it in. Less of a prison — both tighter in the right places, and looser around her arms, neck and shoulders. This time it felt better.
“Thank-you,” she murmured, and the tear-bright black eyes shot to hers.
“My lady,” whispered the maid.
Then she wrapped the veil across Alanna’s nose and mouth before stepping back.
Spitting into the dirt, the ghelber now confronted her, glaring hot dislike into her eyes. Alanna blinked.
“Lord Sharim has sent to fetch you,” he barked. Her already whirring brain spun faster, and she blinked, wondering: Limaq’s father. The warrior continued, “With his son’s death, he assumes responsibility for his grandchild. Come.”
Limaq’s father? Then she did a double-take, gasping: Limaq was really dead?
Tears in her eyes, Alanna watched the back of the ghelber stalking furiously back to his horse, and hesitated. Then she noted the quivering tension in the smelly duo against the wall, glaring, the sneer on the face of one maid, and the fear in the face of the other. She started after her new escort, shock making her reel again, although suspicion also narrowed her teary eyes. The officer had not stepped in to halt the lustful officials until the last minute.
He hated her. Why?