Chapter 1: Taryn
The rain cascades down my face. It mixes with my bitter tears in an indistinguishable concoction that leaves me with a foul taste on my tongue. Gray skies above weep just as I do. It seems even the heavens themselves are in mourning, though I know better. The gods weep for no man and they certainly don’t mourn my husband. Nor do they weep for me. It’s no big deal. I have enough self-pity and sorrow to last a lifetime. I am alone but not alone in a land that is foreign to me. All of the people I have loved lie oceans away or beneath the earth.
“Lady Taryn.” A deep, wizened voice croaks behind me, stirring me from my sorrows. “The rain. It’s getting worse. You will catch your—“ my attendant, Aggy bites her bottom lip, realizing her error too late.
“Death? Is that what you were about to say?” I spin on her, narrowing my red-rimmed eyes. My words come out with more bite than intended. Aggy is a gentle soul and I should not speak to her so. She is my attending maid who was “given “ to me upon my betrothal to my late husband. She is small in stature, no more than a wisp really. I worry that one of these days a stiff wind will carry her off all together. Her hair is not so much gray as it is a refined silver that is concealed beneath a scarf, which is customary for servants. Only those women of noble blood and birth are apparently worthy of showing their hair in this barbaric land. Where I am from we have no such rules. We may still be so antiquated as to have servants but they are not required to cower before us or hide away parts of themselves.
Aggy’s brow creases along with her mouth. I’ve clearly wounded her based on the frown lines that deepen with her expression. “Aye. My apologies. I did not mean anything by it.” Aggy’s head hangs low. She does not deserve my ire but regardless she has it. Aggy pulls a kerchief from her warm and ancient bosom, offering it to me as a white flag of truce. “For your nose, my lady.” I take the peace offering carefully as I still eye the yawning grave that my dear Bowen finds himself resting. It smells of her. Talcum powder with a delicate fragrance of lilac. It’s one of the things I love about this woman. She reminds me so much of my own grandmother, not so much in appearance but in spirit. I feign blowing my nose but secretly waft her scent, finding it soothing in an unexpected way. It’s the very same calm that comes over an injured child seeking solace in a mother’s embrace.
I would reach across the social divide and hug this woman if it were acceptable to do so and if the thought of touching another did not evoke a visceral response. I would hug her if I could stand it, social impropriety be damned, but I feel it would only make us both feel worse somehow. It would be selfish of me to take more of this woman than I already have and cruel for me to give her what I can’t. I cannot risk her punishment for my own desires for an attempt at finding comfort. I eye the groom near the waiting carriage and can’t help but wonder if he is one of the many Vulpin loyalists that my father-in-law keeps in his pocket. I can’t help the feeling of having eyes on me no matter where I am in this backward country. Maybe I’m just finally at my mental breaking point. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
“He was a good man, dear.” Aggy adds, startling me from my thoughts. She adds, patting my back softly. I wince from the touch, my eyes looking back to the groom. He is busy hunched over trying to light a cigarette in the rain. He pays us no notice. Sensing my unease, Aggy withdrawals her hand quickly. She too looks at the groom. Yes. He’s definitely one of the lord’s men. I’ve no desire for comforting if it means Aggy will face the high lord’s lashings. No. The only safe thing I want is to lie down on the muddied earth beside my beloved and wallow in my sadness and self-loathing. Let the imaginary god of death these people cower to take me or let the breath of life restore my husband. I care not which. I would gladly sleep beneath these pissing skies if it meant one more day with my beloved.
“He was a good man.” I agree in a clipped monotone. I’m just parroting the words at this point. “A fool of a man, but a good one nonetheless.”
“My lady!” Aggy kisses her first two fingers and presses them to her forehead. “My Graceful Orla. Do not scorn this weeping widow for her blasphemy. She knows not what she says.”
I turn back to my maid. I feel the incredulity twisting my face into something wicked. “Orla be damned. She has ruined me. Do not waste precious air on prayers that will fall on deaf ears.” My maid gasps and whispers another prayer for my immortal soul. I roll my eyes, waving off her pious words. I’ve never been one for faith or idolatry and I especially would not follow the teachings of a prude like Orla the Pure if I did. She and her “guiding light of righteousness” can go f**k off into the abyss for all I care. Let Mors take them to his inky depths. Perhaps he will take more pity on Orla than she has taken on me. My patience for false profits and dead gods has long evaporated.
I scorn the gods and watch on as the death’s men carefully fill in Bowen’s grave. I tune out the blabbering prayers of my maid and instead focus on my final goodbyes to my mate. “Until we meet again, my love.” I whisper as I drop the kerchief into the quickly filling grave and stomp away. I don’t bother looking back. I’m surprised I had the strength to approach the grave at all and I know I’ll never survive a second glance. I walk away while my legs still have the strength to carry me. Aggy forgets my aversion to touch once more and pats my hand lovingly. Her graying eyes meet mine briefly. I may not want her touch but I accept it all the same. She is trying. Like Bowen, she too is a good person. Warm. Tender.
“Come dear. Let’s get you inside and warm you up.” She slyly slips a small wine skin into my hands. “You’ll need it for tonight. Let the heat line your belly.” I remove a stopper and sniff the contents of the skin. A strong stench of spirits wafts up my nostrils, nearly taking my breath away. I wrinkle my nose and shiver. Aggy laughs quietly. “Aye. It’s strong. It’s from my own stock. Drink up. Your father and his foul mood await us.” Great. I can’t wait. I had hoped my “father,” as he likes to be called, would have suffered his own misfortunes on his way to our estate. No such luck. The bastard likely already sits in his dead son’s seat at the head of the table while he drinks himself stupid.
My father is not a blood relation. It’s just another way these Estrajians differ from my own people. In reality, High Lord Dryndenn is my father-in-law. He’s a bastard in every sense of the word with the exception of his breeding. I have no clue how a decent man like Bowen came from such cruel stock. The man is a pig. There isn’t a woman within reach he hasn’t tried to feel up or f**k. The man is a walking, bullshitting hard-on. Bowen kept me well guarded from Dryndenn, which I am eternally thankful for, but now with his absence I fear the lord’s wandering eyes and roaming hands will set their sights on me. Surely he will be too distraught to get too handsy with me. I can’t imagine a father in mourning would have the will nor the want to molest a grieving widow… or perhaps I greatly underestimate the depravity of the Vulpin sire.
When my actual father arranged for me to marry the eldest son of the high lord, I had my reservations. Though reservations do not equate to a choice for a young and unwed woman like me. Truth be told, I was not excited to meet my betrothed let alone marry him. Rumors of the Vulpin’s debauchery are practically legendary but so is their wealth and power. The latter is what drew my father’s interest. He is a meager lord of a small province. He had no hopes of ever gaining status or political support necessary to be considered anything other than a small fish in a big pond. That all changed when I became old enough to be sold off to the highest bidder.
Yes, I was a handful when it came time for my betrothal and subsequent wedding. Many things were broken, and I fear some of the servants eardrums will never quite be the same after the yelling matches I had with my father. But, no one was more pleasantly surprised than myself when I met the young lord. I had plenty of apologies to make for I was smitten almost at once. Strong and tall, broad of shoulders, Bowen was easy to look at, but his true strength laid in his heart. I’m confident in saying there is…was… no other lord like him and unless I am with child then there will be no more like him. My hand instinctively goes to my abdomen. I had hoped to grace him with children, but we were married for such a brief time before his accident. Scarcely a year has gone by since we joined our bodies and souls to one another; a year of blissful marriage that was so cruelly cut short. I know that I will never be so fortunate as to find true love twice in my life. True love strikes like lightning. It is powerful and unforgiving. It only strikes the same place once but leaves the space forever changed.
I sigh. I’m already tired of feeling so morose. I take a deep drink from the skin and cough. Aggy slaps my back companionably while no one looks. I go to take another drink only for her to take hold of the skin and tilt it up so the liquor sluices down my gullet. It burns violently but the feeling isn’t all together unpleasant. “There you are. Come now. Let’s get to the carriage.”
I hope High Lord Dryndenn is enjoying the warmth of my hearth since he couldn’t be bothered to come out to his son’s grave. My jaw clenches as I step up into the carriage that waits to carry me to my now loveless home.
Bowen was too young to have a preference on where he would be buried but I took the liberty of having his final resting place be at the foot of a weeping willow that we frequented together. He would often sneak kisses beneath the willow's protective branches. On fair nights, we would make love at the tree’s feet. The drooping leaves would muffle my moans as Bowen worshipped my body. Another tear travels down my cheek. The tree is in walking distance of our home, but I have no more desire to visit there. There will be no late-night trysts. No more picnics on the banks of the pond. I sit in the plush seats of the carriage and pray for the drink to take hold of me so I can push the hurt from my very bones.
