Chapter Text
Milena pushes the hood of her cloak back and stares up at the keep looming above her. It’s an enormous building, easily as large as the palace in Tretogor, but unlike the palace, it’s clearly built solely for defense. Its walls are tall and sheer and unadorned, and behind the walls the keep itself bears no decorations, no flowerboxes at the windows or banners hanging from the crenellations. It is all dark stone, bleak as a winter sky. Whatever grounds it has are well within its stark walls - nothing like the sprawling gardens and hunting park which surround the Redanian palace.
It’s built into the side of a mountain, and the road winds steeply up to the iron-bound gates. Milena has noticed three separate places she thinks the road could be blocked or even destroyed by clever use of rockfalls, and there’s a bridge over a deep chasm that she suspects could be shattered, making it even harder for an invading army to reach the keep. If the keep has its own water source, and a reasonably generous supply of preserved food, it could hold out against any siege at all, its lord waiting patiently for an invading army to grow weary and go home again. Which is, Milena assumes, exactly the point.
The road is steep enough, in fact, that no wagons can ascend it. Milena was warned not to pack any more than could be carried on the backs of the three patient mules her father sent with her, and now she understands why. She was warned, too - and she is grateful beyond words for the warning - to pack for winter weather. It is very cold, here in the mountains of the north, and she would be bitterly uncomfortable if not for her fur-lined cloak.
She will have to thank Steward Kelner, whose letter warned her to be ready for the cold.
The knight at the head of the traveling party raises a mailed fist, and Milena grits her teeth as the man leading her mare tugs on the reins. She can ride, quite well in fact, but she has not been allowed to steer her own palfrey - no, she has been kept in leading reins like a child. Or like baggage, perhaps, since none of the men escorting her has spoken more than a few words to her these long weeks on the road.
She suspects it’s because they don’t want to think about the fact that they’re bringing her to - this. To a cold stone keep in the mountains at the northern end of the world, inhabited by inhuman barbarians, one of whom - gods only know which one - she is here to wed, to seal the treaty between the barbarian ruler known as the Wolf-Lord and her own king.
Gods forbid the men escorting her actually get to know her and have to feel sorry for her, after all.
She can’t decide whether she prefers their deliberate distance, or the way the priestess, Sister Otylia, keeps trying to lead her in prayers. At least Sister Otylia is trying, but suggesting prayers for a kind husband seems a bit cruel, honestly. Milena will be marrying a barbarian. The most she can hope for is that the Wolf-Lord will value her as a living symbol of the treaty, and not allow his vassal to mistreat her too badly...whatever a barbarian might think ‘too badly’ means.
The right-hand leaf of the huge iron-bound gate creaks open just wide enough to let out a single man on foot, and Milena gets her first look at one of the inhuman barbarians of the northern mountains.
He looks a lot like any other man, at least at first.
He’s wearing plain leather armor, dark brown and well-worn, nothing like the shining mail of the three knights among her escorts, and the hilt of a sword juts out above one shoulder. There’s a silver pendant of some sort around his throat, the only adornment Milena can see. His dark hair is braided back tightly. His skin is tanned to a smooth mahogany shade.
Then he gets a little closer, and she starts noticing other things. The prowling grace of his walk, more animal than human. The scar that winds its way down one side of his face, barely missing the eye, and curls his lip into a perpetual snarl. The eyes themselves, a truly uncanny shade of deep yellow-gold, almost exactly the same color as her mother’s favorite amber pendant.
He’s a big man, she realizes as he halts ten or twelve paces away from the lead knight, well over six feet tall and almost equally broad in the shoulders. He is, in fact, taller and broader than any of the knights, or anyone else Milena has ever met, and yet he moves as lightly as any acrobat, with a lithe and predatory grace.
He’s terrifying.
She really, really hopes he’s not the man she’s come to wed.
“Hail,” he says, in a deep, slightly rough voice that makes Milena shiver and tug her cloak a little more tightly around her, though the chill running down her spine is fear, not the wind’s cold bite.
“Hail, my lord,” the lead knight says. His voice shakes a little. Milena can’t blame him. “We are come escorting Lady Milena de Roggeven, to seal the treaty between King Vizimir and the Wolf-Lord.”
The barbarian nods, and looks past the knight, and his gaze meets hers.
His eyes are slitted like a cat’s.
Milena’s breath catches in her throat, but she refuses to look away. After a long, long moment, the barbarian nods. “You had best come in, then.” He turns and whistles a few notes, and after a brief pause, the gates creak open, wider and wider, until Milena can see the courtyard beyond. The barbarian beckons her party forward.
Suddenly, Milena is almost grateful for the leading reins. All she has to do is hold onto the pommel of her saddle and remember to breathe as the barbarian leads her to her fate.
*
The main courtyard between the wall and the keep is surprisingly empty. Milena wasn’t necessarily expecting a welcoming committee - who knows how barbarians do anything, after all - but the fact that there’s only a pair of grooms waiting out in front of the stables is still a bit surprising. One of the knights comes over to help her down - gloved hand against gloved hand, she hasn’t actually touched anyone since she hugged her sister before she left Tretogor - and Milena shakes out her skirts and hopes she’ll be given a little time to freshen up before the wedding ceremony. She’s done her best to keep tidy on the road, but she currently smells of dirt and horse, and her dress is appropriate for riding, not a formal court occasion.
The main doors of the keep are large and black and tightly closed, and Milena wonders if that is meant to be an insult - until one swings open, and a short, stocky, completely human man with grey-streaked, sandy hair, wearing a heavy woollen tunic and trousers in a plain unadorned grey, sturdy boots, a light coat in a very nice shade of brown, and a silver pendant around his throat, comes hurrying out and down the steps.
“Eskel,” he says as he reaches the barbarian who led them in, “you should have sent someone for me!”
Eskel. That’s the name of the Wolf-Lord’s second-in-command, Milena thinks. But then, there might easily be many Eskels among the barbarians, in the way there are four Aleksanders among her father’s men. Certainly she cannot imagine any king’s right-hand warrior looking quite so sheepish when confronted by a man half his size. The newcomer, Milena sees when he turns to smile at her, has perfectly normal blue eyes, and is about her father’s age; the wrinkles around his eyes suggest he spends a lot of time smiling.
“Lady Milena,” he says warmly, bowing. “I am Jan Kelner; I have the honor to be the steward here. May I escort you to the rooms which have been set aside for you?”
Milena curtsies. “Thank you, Steward Kelner, that would be most appreciated.”
“You lot follow me, then,” Eskel says to the knights and guardsmen and nervous-looking priestess who have escorted Milena this far. “We’ve rooms made ready. Which of you are meant to witness the wedding?”
He leads them away, and Milena takes Steward Kelner’s arm when he offers it and follows him up the steps and into the keep.
Inside, the keep is just as plain as its outside suggested. There are no tapestries on the walls, no carpets on the floors, not even strewn reeds or straw. But, to Milena’s surprise, it is clean. There is no trace of the sort of dirt and muck a normal castle accumulates, and the air smells...a little metallic, almost, but not unpleasant. And it is cold, but not quite as cold as she expected.
“Did you not bring a maid, Lady Milena?” Steward Kelner asks, as they turn from the entrance hall to ascend a flight of well-worn stairs.
“No, I felt it would be...unwise,” Milena says carefully. “If there is someone here who wishes to assist me, I would be grateful, but I will not need a maid - I can tend my own hair, and have brought only that clothing which I can don unassisted.” Bad enough that she was sent into the hands of barbarians - she cannot imagine being cruel enough to bring a maid with her. She, at least, might have the slim protection of the treaty and her rank. A maid would not have either.
“We’ve no one here who is trained as a lady’s maid, I’m afraid,” Steward Kelner frowns, “but I will ask my daughter if she would be willing to assist you today, at least. You are weary, I am sure, and she will be able to bring you anything you need.”
“That will be much appreciated,” Milena says gratefully.
Steward Kelner leads her along another plain hallway to a wooden door, which, opened, proves to lead to a little suite, just a sitting room and a bedroom. Here, however, there are tapestries on the walls and a thick carpet on the floor, all figured with geometric patterns in soothing browns and greens, and the bed is heaped with thick woollen blankets and a positively enormous bearskin.
“Rest a while,” Steward Kelner says gently. “I will have your baggage brought up, and my Julita will come to wake you in a few hours, before tonight’s ceremony.”
“Thank you,” Milena says. She has been sleeping in terrible inn beds for weeks now; that bed looks incredibly appealing.
Steward Kelner pats her hand before he steps away. “Don’t worry,” he says, smiling softly. “It won’t be as bad as you’re fearing.”
“Thank you,” Milena says again, and he lets himself out, closing the door gently behind him.
He can’t promise that, of course - cannot promise her barbarian husband will be anything but barbaric - but it’s very kind of him to try, at least.
And as there is no point in sitting up and fretting, Milena leaves her cloak draped over a chair near the fire and her shoes tucked neatly under the bed, closes the door between the bedroom and the sitting room, and collapses into the bed with a sigh of exhaustion. She’s asleep almost before she tugs the blankets over herself.
*
Milena wakes to someone knocking at the door, and for a moment she does not know where she is. It’s cold, far too cold for late spring, and this is definitely not her bedroom in Roggeven or the room in Tretogor she shares with her sisters -
Oh. This is Kaer Morhen, keep of the Wolf-Lord. “A moment!” she calls, and scrambles out of bed, finding her shoes and tugging them on hastily.
Waiting patiently on the other side of the bedroom door is a woman of about Milena’s age - a tall, pretty, curvaceous girl with impressively muscular arms. Her hair, bound up in a tight sensible braid, is the same sandy-blonde as Steward Kelner’s, though obviously lacking the grey, and her eyes are just as blue. She’s easily a head taller than Milena, and probably outweighs her by half again. She’s wearing fairly plain clothing: a heavy green wool dress with no decoration, a white apron over it, sensible leather shoes, and another of those silver pendants.
“Hullo!” she says cheerfully. “I’m Julita - Steward Kelner’s daughter. He asked me to help you with anything you need before your wedding.”
“My thanks,” Milena says, smiling up at her. “I’m Milena.” No point standing on rank and offending someone who might be willing to help her, after all, and surely the steward’s daughter is a woman of rank - the steward himself is probably at least a viscount, given that he serves a man who holds the power, if not the title, of a king.
“Good to meet you. I’ve no idea what sort of things you might need, so just tell me what you want and we’ll make it happen.” Julita’s grin is infectious; Milena finds herself relaxing despite everything.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a bath?”
Julita’s eyes go a little wide. “Oh - oh. Yes. That...you probably don’t want to use the hot springs, do you. I’ll ask some of the wolfblood to bring up a tub.”
The wolfblood, Milena thinks. That’s what the barbarians call themselves, or at least what their servants call them. And then - “Hot springs?”
“Oh, they’re marvelous,” Julita beams. “But Aunt Zofia says they’re a bit shocking for newcomers. Hang on, I’ll go see about that tub.” She’s gone in a flurry of green skirts, and Milena blinks after her for a moment before looking around to see that her bags have been stacked neatly against the wall near the fireplace. She sorts through them until she finds the one that’s devoted to her finery: a blue silk dress adorned with her own intricate embroidery, a pair of silk slippers that go with it, a silver-and-sapphire necklace and bracelets and hairpins. She’ll need to wear her fur-lined cloak too, lest she freeze solid, but at least its outer layer is dark blue wool, so it will all look of a piece.
She lays out the dress and shift and jewelry on the chair near the fireplace, and wonders if the barbarians - no, the wolfblood, she mustn’t insult her new lord and his people - will even care that she has donned her finery, or if her new husband will tear it apart without regard for its beauty.
Thoughts like that will do her no good at all.
Someone raps on the door, and she opens it to find Julita, beaming and holding a stack of linen towels, leading a group of four cat-eyed wolfblood men in simple leathers or plain tunics and trousers. No, three men and a woman.
Milena had not realized there were wolfblood women.
Two of the men are carrying a brass tub, and the other man and the woman have buckets of steaming water. Milena steps back to let them in, watching in amazement as they set the tub down near the fire and fill it without seeming to notice the weight of the buckets at all. Each of them nods to her as they file out again, and Julita closes the door behind them and grins at Milena. “One bath!”
“Thank you,” Milena says, meaning it. “Do I have time to dry my hair before the ceremony, if I wash it now?”
Julita considers. “Probably, if you’re quick about the washing, yes.”
“Then I shall be very fast indeed,” Milena says, and begins unlacing her dress; the prospect of being clean after so long on the road is enough to override even her hesitation about undressing in front of a stranger. Julita puts the toweling down on the hearth and comes over, hesitating like she’s not entirely sure how to help.
“Can I do anything?”
“Would you unbraid my hair?” Milena asks.
“Sure,” Julita says, and moves around behind Milena to do so, her hands very gentle as she works. “You’ve got lovely hair.”
“Thank you,” Milena says. “Yours is also very pretty.”
Julita chuckles. “Eh, it’s nice enough, but it does get in the way a bit. I keep saying I’ll cut it off short like Mistress Emilia’s, but then Roland looks sad, so I never do.”
Milena isn’t quite sure how to react to any of that. “What does it get in the way of?” is the question she settles on eventually, as Julita finishes unbraiding her hair. The bath is almost too hot, but it feels very good after the long days of riding; Milena sinks under briefly to wet her hair, and begins combing soap through it as quickly and thoroughly as she can.
“Baking,” Julita says. “I’m one of the junior bakers for the keep - Mistress Emilia runs the bakery.”
The steward’s daughter is a baker. That’s...unusual. In most royal courts, since the steward is himself noble, his daughter would never dream of working like a common artisan. But Julita seems delighted, so Milena smiles and says, “And have you attained your mastery, then?”
“Not yet,” Julita says cheerfully. “I’m to be made journeywoman at midsummer. I’m hoping to be able to go down south and learn about fancy pastries for my masterwork.”
“I have a few acquaintances in the south,” Milena offers. “I could write and see if any of them have skilled pastry cooks who would be pleased to take you as a student - if my lord husband allows, of course.”
“That would be wonderful,” Julita enthuses. “Who are you going to marry?”
“...I don’t know,” Milena admits, in a rather smaller voice than she wants to. “That is at the Wolf-Lord’s discretion.”
“Oh,” Julita says, and wrinkles her nose. “Well, don’t worry. Most of them are all bark and no bite, and the Wolf won’t choose any of the nasty ones, I’m sure.”
All bark and no bite. That can’t be true. The wolfblood are the most terrifying warriors in the world - every one of them more dangerous than an entire mounted squadron of knights, or half a company of good infantry. So Milena’s father says, at least, and she has no reason to doubt his word. But there is no point in saying so to Julita.
It is, perhaps, a good sign that a purely human girl - a servant, if one of high rank - speaks of the wolfblood so fearlessly. They have clearly been kind to her. But she is the steward’s daughter; that may afford her some protection that others might not hope for.
Milena finishes her bath as quickly as she can, though she’d love to stay in the warm water a little longer. Julita helps her pat her hair mostly dry, and then she sits in front of the fireplace with it spread out around her and combs it out one section at a time. Julita watches in mild amazement as Milena plaits it into an elaborate crown braid and pins it carefully in place.
“That looks gorgeous,” she says quite frankly when Milena finishes. Milena smiles. Julita passes her clothing, one piece at a time, and Milena tries to pretend that the beautiful soft linen shift and elegant silken overdress are armor which will grant her protection from all harm. It’s far, far too easy to instead imagine them being shredded, either by knives or inhumanly strong fingers, but Milena tries very hard not to.
She settles the bracelets on her wrists and the necklace about her throat, and turns to Julita for a judgement. Julita actually clasps her hands in delight.
“You look like something out of a wondertale - like a queen.”
Milena can feel her cheeks heating a little. “Thank you,” she says, and takes the cloak - warm from its hours near the fire - to wrap around herself. “I hope my lord husband will be as pleased.”
“Well, if he’s not, you tell me, and I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” Julita says briskly. “Makes me glad I’m not a noble, though. I can’t imagine being married to someone I’d never met.”
“Will your father not be arranging a marriage for you, then?” Milena asks. She knows common folk do so, especially the wealthy ones, and the Wolf-Lord’s steward is surely a wealthy man, even if he is apparently not noble.
“No, I’ll be marrying Roland, when I’ve got my mastery and he’s finished with his mentorship years.”
“Oh,” Milena says. “Is he also in service here?”
“You could say that, I guess,” Julita chuckles. “He’s wolfblood. Of the Griffin clan.”
Milena blinks at her in mute astonishment. She’s - she’s planning to marry one of the wolfblood. She’s happy about it.
“I wish you much joy,” she manages at last, and Julita grins.
“And as much to you,” she says. “It’s about time to head down. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”
Milena swallows and puts her shoulders back. She is a duke’s daughter, of the ancient blood of Roggeven. She will not show her fear. “Lead on, then. I am ready.”
*
Eskel is waiting in the entrance hall, in front of a pair of tall doors carved with enormous figures of wolves, rampant, snarling out at whoever has the temerity to demand entrance. He has put off his sword and armor, and is wearing a deep crimson tunic with a subtle geometric pattern woven into it in a very slightly lighter shade. He still looks very, very dangerous.
Julita smiles at him. “Here she is!”
“Thank you,” Eskel says, smiling back - at least, Milena thinks it’s a smile. The scar turns the expression to a truly formidable snarl, and his teeth are sharper than a human man’s ought to be. “Lady Milena.” He offers her his arm. Milena swallows hard and takes it, glad of the thick wool of his tunic. She isn’t ready to touch one of the wolfblood skin to skin.
Though she won’t have any choice, later tonight.
She puts that carefully from her mind. “Thank you for all your help, Julita.”
“My pleasure,” Julita says warmly. “Let me know if you ever need anything, alright?” She pats Milena’s shoulder and goes off down a side hallway. Milena almost calls her back - a friendly face, a human face, is something she desperately wants right now. But Julita has her own duties, surely, and has been far kinder than Milena could have expected already.
“Right then,” Eskel says, “you ready?”
Milena swallows terror and raises her head as proudly as she can. “I am.” She’s very glad her voice doesn’t shake.
Eskel gives her an oddly speculative look and pushes the doors open. Milena stumbles a little at the sudden wave of sound.
There are seven long tables in the hall revealed by the open doors, six parallel to the longest walls, and one perpendicular to the others - Milena assumes that’s the high table - each of them holding at least a hundred people. Milena is briefly horrified by the thought of so many wolfblood - even her father’s most pessimistic estimates did not go so far! - before she realizes that there are humans at each table, too. Indeed, even as they pause in the doorway, a much smaller door on one side of the hall opens, and Julita slips in, hurrying over to one of the tables and sitting down between a positively enormous shaven-headed wolfblood man and Steward Kelner.
A second, less panicked assessment of the hall leads to the conclusion that maybe half the people here are wolfblood. That’s still far more of the inhuman barbarians than Milena wants to be surrounded by, of course. The little cluster of Redanian knights, up at the end of the high table, look almost as unhappy as she is.
The huge hall hushes as Eskel leads her down between two of the tables, humans and wolfblood alike turning to stare at her. In the cleared space between the lower tables and the high table, Milena can see Sister Otylia waiting - Sister Otylia, and two men. No. Two wolfblood.
One of them has to be the Wolf-Lord. He can’t possibly be anyone else.
He’s neither taller nor broader than the other wolfblood at the tables - might actually be slightly smaller than Eskel, in fact - and he wears no outward symbol of his rank, only the same plain clothing as his followers, a deep grey tunic with the same subtle patterns as Eskel’s, but he draws the eye somehow, like he’s a little more real than anything else in the room. His hair is white as bone, though he does not look old otherwise, and his eyes, when Milena gets close enough to see them, are a pure true gold.
The wolfblood beside him is a tall man, easily reaching Eskel’s height, broad-shouldered and brawny, perhaps thirty years old by Milena’s best estimate, with wavy chin-length hair as red as fire, a strong nose, and eyes the shade of the topazes Milena’s sister Marika likes to wear. There’s a long-healed scar down the left side of his face, crossing the eyebrow, and he is clean-shaven, his pale skin dotted with very faint freckles. His tunic is a green so deep it’s nearly black, utterly unadorned, and his belt bears a startling number of daggers.
He has his arms crossed over his broad chest and is scowling blackly.
He’d be quite handsome, if he wasn’t so very angry, and so very terrifying.
Milena knows she isn’t here to wed the Wolf-Lord, thank all the gods, which means that unless she’s supposed to marry Eskel, this glowering man is probably her intended. He doesn’t look happy about it.
Gods, Milena prays silently, please let him not take that out on me.
She’s fairly sure the gods aren’t listening, but it cannot hurt to try.
Eskel stops in front of the Wolf-Lord, and Milena lets go of his arm and bends into her deepest court curtsey, dropping her eyes. The Wolf-Lord wears startlingly plain, rather scuffed boots. “My lord,” she murmurs, hoping desperately that he is not angered by her lack of knowledge of his proper form of address.
“Milena de Roggeven,” the Wolf-Lord says. His voice is gravelly, tone utterly unreadable. “Rise.”
Milena straightens, daring to dart a look at him from under her lashes. He’s looking down at her with those golden eyes, and she flinches away from meeting them. She feels like if she does, he might be able to see right into her very soul.
“We have a treaty with Redania,” the Wolf-Lord says, raising his voice a little - but only a little. The rest of the hall is utterly silent, not even cloth rustling. His voice echoes slightly from the bleak stone walls. “King Vizimir required a marriage to seal it. This is Milena de Roggeven, daughter of the Duke of Roggeven. She will marry Lambert of the Wolves, tonight, with you all to witness.”
“Wolf,” comes the answer from almost a thousand throats, one word alone but so filled with something Milena can only call fealty that she sways with the force of it.
“Priestess,” the Wolf-Lord says, and beckons. Sister Otylia steps forward, looking as intimidated as Milena feels, and holds out the cloth-of-gold ribbon in both hands.
Milena has attended several weddings before - they aren’t exactly uncommon events. She knows the ritual well enough to tell that Sister Otylia is rushing a little. But she does say everything that ought to be said. Milena makes her vows when Sister Otylia prompts her, and Lambert does the same in his turn, in a low, furious voice that makes Milena shiver with fear. He holds out his hand as the ritual ends, and Milena puts hers into it. Her hand looks very small against his broad palm.
His hand is very warm, and heavily callused, and really quite astonishingly gentle as he curls his fingers around her hand. He holds it rock-steady beneath hers, unflinching, as Sister Otylia winds the ribbon around their hands and ties the ceremonial knot and speaks the final words.
Milena is married.
“I witness,” the Wolf-Lord rumbles, and Eskel says, “I witness,” a beat behind. And then again that great roar from the watching humans and wolfblood: “I witness,” loud enough to shake the rafters.
Sister Otylia bows her head and scurries away, back to her seat among the knights. Milena wonders what happens next. Her sister Marta had speculated rather viciously that maybe the barbarians liked to consummate marriages in public. She’s probably wrong, but who knows? Maybe they wouldn’t even think that was rude - maybe people who have lived here all their lives, like Julita, would find that merely a pleasant evening’s entertainment.
What actually happens is that Lambert draws a knife. Or - she assumes he draws it. It appears in his free hand, anyway. Milena squeaks; she can’t help it. He pauses, looking at her.
“Well,” he says, the first time he’s addressed her directly, “how else do I get this fucking thing off?”
Milena swallows hard. Traditionally, newlyweds wear the ribbon through the wedding feast, the man feeding his wife in token of the care he will give her all their days, the woman lifting their joint cup in token of the joy he will find at her hands. But she doesn’t think Lambert wants to hear that.
“Like this,” she says, so faintly she can hardly hear herself, and reaches out to pluck at the loop of the knot. The ribbon unwinds itself easily, and she coils it up in her palm.
She’s dreamed of this moment, of course. What girl hasn’t? Of holding a golden ribbon, symbol of a union which cannot be severed save by the gods themselves, her hand cradled in her husband’s. Of his awe at holding two such priceless prizes: the gold, and her.
There’s no such awe here now. Lambert drops his hand as soon as the ribbon comes loose, and steps away, like he’s disgusted at even being near her. Milena closes her hand around the ribbon and bites the inside of her cheek to fight back utterly pointless tears. She always knew she’d marry for political reasons. She just...thought whoever she married might at least be willing to work with her a little.
She tucks the ribbon away in her sleeve. She’ll put it in her jewelry box later. It ought to be displayed, framed above the mantel, but...somehow she doesn’t think that’s going to happen.
“Lambert,” Eskel says quietly, under the noise of the humans and wolfblood beginning to talk and laugh among themselves.
Lambert glares at the other man for a moment, then turns reluctantly to Milena. “Come on, then.”
Milena follows him obediently up to the head table - fairly close to the middle and the large seat which must be the Wolf-Lord’s, in fact. There are three empty chairs to its right. Lambert yanks the middle one out and sits down heavily in it, then gestures for Milena to take the seat to his right.
The chair is heavy wood, and Milena grits her teeth as she tugs at it; it barely shifts. Lambert glances over and frowns, then sighs and shoves the chair with one hand; it moves easily, like it was made of lightest wicker.
Milena sits down, shivering again despite her heavy cloak. How strong are wolfblood?
How many bruises will she have, tomorrow?
The Wolf-Lord takes the large chair, as she’d expected, and Eskel sits at his right hand. He is the Wolf-Lord’s second-in-command, then - yet, like his lord, he wears no outward signals of his rank.
Oh dear. And she didn’t give him anything like the proper level of courtesy!
Presumably all of the wolfblood and their servants know who holds rank and who does not, but Milena doesn’t, and that means she is almost guaranteed to give offense to someone, assuming she hasn’t already blundered so badly as to offend everyone. She’ll have to work on memorizing faces as fast as she can, but the huge hall is oddly blurry; she can’t seem to focus on anything. Oh, gods be good. She bites the inside of her cheek again, a little too hard, and the pain centers her. She can’t start crying. That would be horribly offensive to her new husband, and the Wolf-Lord, and the treaty, and -
She just can’t.
“Here,” the wolfblood man to her right says, and reaches over to fill her mug with what smells like good dark ale. Milena usually prefers wine, but that doesn’t seem to be available. “Don’t worry, Lambert’s just prickly.”
“Oh, no, I -” Milena says, horrified. She’s already bringing disgrace upon herself, upon her brand-new marriage. “I am dreadfully sorry; the journey has been long. I am but over-tired.” It’s even mostly true; despite the nap, she’s still weary.
“Huh,” the man says. He’s a redhead too, though he wears his hair longer than Lambert does, the thick bright-orange braid falling almost down to the small of his back. “You really don’t know much about the wolfblood, do you.”
Oh gods, she has given offense already. “No, my lord,” Milena almost whispers, desperately hoping contrition will be enough.
Lambert snorts explosively. The man to Milena’s right sighs. “What the hell is Redania thinking? Well, you’ll learn, I suppose. I’m Gweld.”
“It is an honor,” Milena says. She can’t recall hearing anything about a warrior named Gweld, but he sits near to the Wolf-Lord, so he must hold some important rank.
Lambert takes a platter of venison from Eskel and heaps his trencher, then looks at her, looks at the platter - it’s very large and obviously quite heavy, even if he seems to have no trouble lifting it with one brawny hand - scowls even harder, and stabs four slices of venison, flipping them neatly onto her trencher before handing the platter past her to Gweld, who also doesn’t seem to notice its weight.
He does the same with a big bowl of stewed greens with bacon, putting a sizeable scoop on Milena’s trencher, and then adds almost a quarter of a chicken. Milena gulps. “My lord husband,” she says, very quietly, as he reaches for another platter, this holding what might be wild boar stewed with plums. Lambert glares at her. “That is...more than enough food. I thank you.”
Lambert glowers. “Eat what you can, I’ll finish the rest,” he grumbles, and turns his attention to his own trencher, which he heaps much higher than hers, taking large portions from every platter that goes by. She glances around to find that all the wolfblood have heavily laden trenchers.
There’s a knife and a spoon beside her trencher, and everyone else is eating, including the Wolf-Lord, so she sets to, and is promptly astonished. It’s delicious. She wasn’t expecting to get better food in Kaer Morhen than she’s ever had in Tretogor. Perfectly cooked, beautifully spiced - a masterwork of the cook’s art. And the rolls which come around in a big basket are as light as air, with a gorgeous crunchy crust, perfect for soaking up the venison juices. Milena savors every bite, marveling at the sheer unlikeliness of finding this sort of food among barbarians.
She can only finish about half of what Lambert put on her trencher, though she samples everything, not wishing to seem ungrateful.
When she finally puts her utensils down and sits back, Lambert reaches over and pulls her trencher in front of him, and finishes off what she’s left almost as quickly as he did his first serving. Milena tries hard not to think about anything Marta might have said about ravenous appetites.
He doesn’t have to like her to want to do...other things, after all.
When everyone has cleared their trenchers, someone calls a few words up to the high table - Milena doesn’t catch them in the din - and the Wolf-Lord nods. Moments later, the big space in front of the high table begins to fill with people; several of them start clapping, and the rest begin a sort of stomping, wild dance accompanied by a low, steady chant in a language Milena doesn’t recognize. It’s quite interesting, actually: they form a ring, several people deep, with a wide clear space in the center, and one by one a wolfblood or a human will come out into the middle and start to show off, jumping and kicking and twirling to the steady, stomping beat, each solitary dancer performing for the length of a single verse of the chant, the end of which is marked by a double stomp and a shout from all the other dancers. Many of the wolfblood can do utterly astonishing things, leaping far higher than Milena would ever have guessed anyone could, touching their toes to the backs of their heads at the top of the jumps, kicking their legs into full splits as they twirl. Milena taps her hands together near-silently in time until she notices Lambert is watching her and frowning slightly; then she folds her hands into her lap and presses her lips together.
Lambert’s frown gets worse. Milena bites the inside of her cheek again. She’s not sure what she’s doing wrong.
Maybe he doesn’t like her admiring other wolfblood. But she was only observing their dancing!
He turns away to watch the dancers again, and Milena drops her eyes to her hands, white-knuckled where they clutch each other. She doesn’t know what her new husband wants, or how to please him, and she’s tired and scared and so alone. She can’t even take a little comfort in Gweld’s slightly-friendly presence, because he’s gone down to join the dancing.
Lambert sighs, and stands, and beckons her. Milena scrambles to her feet. This is it, then.
Her hands are cold as ice, and she thinks she might be shaking.
Lambert leads the way out of the hall through one of the side doors, walking fast enough that Milena has to jog to keep up. He glances back at her after a few moments, grimaces, and slows enough that she can catch up and keep pace with him easily. He doesn’t speak, though. Milena bites the inside of her cheek and glances sidelong at him, trying to read his expression and body language. He doesn’t look like a man who’s planning on ravishing his new wife, but then again, Milena has no idea what that looks like anyway.
She’s not even entirely sure what a wedding night consists of. Marta’s vicious tales can’t be all there is to it; Marta’s not married either, so how would she know? If Milena were back in Tretogor - if she were back in Tretogor, her mother would have helped her dress for her wedding, and Mother and Milena’s married cousins would have given her advice. But she is not in Tretogor, and all the advice Mother gave her before she left was to remember that she is of noble blood, and do her duty.
And even if she were in Tretogor, who knows if the advice which might be suitable for a wedding to a son of a noble house would even be applicable to a wedding to a barbarian.
A wolfblood. She must remember. She has already offended simply by not knowing anything about them; she mustn’t forget herself and insult them aloud.
Lambert leads her, not to the rooms she used this afternoon, but up several floors higher, to a plain wooden door which, opened, reveals rooms which must be his.
They are...imposing.
There’s a thick carpet on the floor, in a restful shade of grey with, again, subtle geometric patterns woven into it. Along two of the walls, instead of tapestries, there are racks for weapons - lots of weapons, swords and daggers and things Milena cannot name - and a set of plain leather armor on a stand, several heavy chests of who knows what, and, to Milena’s surprise, a shelf of books. She hadn’t thought barbarians would read. There are windows along one wall, tightly shuttered now.
There’s a very large fireplace along the final wall, the fire in it banked back to glowing coals, and in front of it, a pair of surprisingly comfortable-looking leather-covered chairs and a low, battered wooden table. Above the mantel is a single sword, naked blade gleaming. Next to the fireplace is another door, and through the half-open gap Milena can make out what is almost certainly a very large bed.
Her baggage, somewhat to her surprise, is stacked neatly beneath one of the windows. Evidently she is meant to share these rooms with her new husband, rather than having a suite of her own.
She hesitates in the center of the room, wondering what to do. Head straight for the bedroom, to show her willingness, and perhaps put an end to the horrid tension of not knowing what to expect? Wait for instruction from her husband? Begin unpacking her baggage - though she has no idea where to put her things?
Lambert closes the door behind himself and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face, before giving her a look she can’t read at all. He shakes his head a little and walks over to one of the chairs, giving her a wide berth, and sinks into it with a quiet groan. “Sit down,” he orders, waving at the other chair.
Milena does so rather gingerly, watching him out of the corner of her eye. To her increasing dismay, he draws a dagger and begins flipping it in one hand, not even watching the blade as it arcs through the air. Milena sits very still. She doesn’t think this is meant to be a threat - it seems more like an accustomed idle habit than anything else - but it feels like a threat all the same. She bites the inside of her cheek - it’s getting rather raw by now - and twines her fingers together, and waits.
“So,” Lambert says at last, and flings the knife - away from her, thank the gods. It thunks neatly into the bullseye of a target hanging on the wall. He didn’t even look to aim. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be a shitty husband, and I’m absolutely sure I’m not what you wanted in a husband.”
“Oh,” Milena says hastily, “oh, no, my lord husband, I -”
Lambert turns and glares at her, yellow eyes catching the firelight with an unnatural glow. “Don’t lie to me,” he snarls. Milena shrinks back in her chair, trembling. Oh gods, oh gods, she’s truly made him angry.
He glares for a moment longer, then grimaces and looks away again, shoulders slumping a little. “And don’t call me that.”
“Don’t - call you husband?” Milena quavers.
“Nah. I am that, little as either of us fucking well likes it. Don’t call me ‘lord.’ I’m not.”
Not a lord? But he sits near to the Wolf-Lord - he was judged to be of high enough rank to marry and seal the treaty -
“We’re none of us lords, really,” Lambert continues. “Except Geralt maybe. The clans don’t work like that.”
“Oh,” Milena says, at last. She can’t think of anything else to say. She’s not sure who Geralt is, though from context she has to guess that’s the Wolf-Lord’s name - and anyone who can call the Wolf-Lord by his bare name certainly ought to be of exalted rank himself -
She really doesn’t know anything about the wolfblood, and she desperately needs to.
“What would you prefer I call you, then?” she asks hesitantly.
“My name,” he says. “Husband if you must. But - ah, fuck it. I don’t even know what a husband ought to do. Wolfblood don’t marry, usually.”
“Oh,” Milena says again. She wants to ask about Julita, who was quite clear about her plans to marry her wolfblood Roland, but this is almost certainly not the time, nor the person to ask. “Traditionally,” she ventures, and Lambert turns to look at her again, that disconcerting yellow gaze making her shiver. “Traditionally, in Redania, it is a husband’s duty to protect and provide for his wife, and to sire heirs upon her.”
“Well, I can’t do that last bit,” Lambert says. “I’m sterile - all wolfblood are.”
Milena would really like to stop being astonished every five seconds. In Redania, the mere suggestion that a man of noble blood might be unable to sire children would be utterly scandalous; here, apparently, it’s common knowledge. Milena is suddenly desperately curious as to how one becomes wolfblood, if it isn’t hereditary, but that is a question for later, and perhaps for someone less terrifying than her husband.
“Protect and provide, though,” Lambert says thoughtfully. “Guess I can do that. No one here will harm you.” He pauses, and then, to Milena’s astonishment, he draws another dagger and scratches the tip along his forearm, leaving a long thin line of blood. He holds the bloody dagger out to her, hilt-first.
“I will never hurt you,” he says, shockingly fierce. His eyes are almost blazing. “I swear it on my blood and steel. And if I ever do raise my hand to you, you should fucking well stab me for it.”
Milena stares at him in baffled shock. He frowns a little, and wiggles the dagger. Dazedly, she reaches out to wrap her hand around the hilt. It’s a little too big to hold comfortably, and heavier than she expects; she almost drops it when Lambert lets go of it. He eyes her hand dubiously.
“You don’t know how to use that, do you.”
“No, my - husband.” Milena cuts off the lord only just in time. His brows draw together in another frown.
“I can teach you,” he says, a little awkwardly. “If you want.”
Milena tries to imagine any nobleman of Redania offering to teach his brand-new wife to use a dagger so she can stab him if he ever harms her, and utterly fails to do so. It just isn’t something that happens. But it’s also the first even vaguely amiable gesture her husband has made.
And...the dagger is too heavy, its hilt too large, but there is something rather comforting about thinking she might be able to defend herself, at least a little. No one’s ever offered to teach her to do so before. Noble ladies of Redania rely on their menfolk for such things. But...it might be rather nice.
“Thank you,” she says. “I would - I would like that a great deal.”
Lambert offers her a very small, very tentative smile, the first she’s seen him wear. It makes his scarred face a little less intimidating.
His arm, she notices, has healed already, nothing more than a smear of blood showing where the cut was. That must be a wolfblood trait. No wonder they are fearsome warriors, if they can heal from injuries in mere fractions of the time that humans must suffer.
“Alright,” he says. “Fuck. That’s...probably enough to be getting on with for tonight. You’re fucking exhausted anyhow.” Milena would like to know how he knows that - she’s been keeping a very good pretense of alertness, she’s sure of it. But he sounds utterly certain. “Go on, go get some sleep.”
“Ah,” Milena says, and stops. She has no idea how to ask the question which hovers on the tip of her tongue.
“Not gonna hurt you,” Lambert says, the words as solid as if they’ve been carved in stone. “Not gonna force you. Not now, not ever. Go, sleep. I’ll stay out here.”
“Thank you, husband,” Milena whispers, and rises, taking the bag which holds her nightclothes and toiletries and retreating into the bedroom, closing the door tightly behind her and slumping against it.
Not gonna hurt you. Not gonna force you. Not now, not ever. I swear it on my blood and steel. What nobleman of Redania would give such a promise to his new bride, especially one as little wanted as she evidently is?
It isn’t a promise Milena has ever expected from any husband, much less a barbarian wolfblood who clearly doesn’t want her.
She has no idea what to do with it, but...somehow, she doesn’t think Lambert was lying. He doesn’t seem like the sort of man who would lie, really. He wears everything he’s feeling on his face, and doesn’t bother to try to conceal his opinions even when they’re definitely in opposition to the Wolf-Lord’s preferences.
That’s something, at least. She’ll never have to wonder if she has angered him, even if she doesn’t yet know what will do so. She’ll never have to suffer through a long court dinner, wondering if his placid smile conceals fury, the way she so often did around her father. There’s something oddly reassuring about that.
The bedroom is lit by a single candle in a brass holder on the wall - there’s a fascinating curved bit of brass behind the candle, which reflects its flame until it sheds far more light than she might have expected. There’s a single tall wardrobe on the wall opposite the door, and the bed itself, a huge four-postered thing heaped with heavy blankets, and a chest at the bottom of the bed. Milena unpacks her bag onto the top of the chest for lack of any better place, and changes into a soft nightgown and a heavy, warm dressing gown, and thick fur-lined slippers. She’s definitely glad of Steward Kelner’s warning; even with the wall which is mostly the back of the fireplace radiating heat, it’s rather chilly in here.
The dagger she cleans carefully with a handkerchief, and sets down beside her hairbrush, where it looks dreadfully out of place.
She starts to clamber into the bed, and hesitates. Lambert is going to stay out in the sitting room - somehow, she trusts that he really does mean that. Which means he’ll be sleeping out there. Unless there are blankets in one of those storage chests, he won’t have any sort of covering.
Carefully, she takes the heaviest blanket off the bed and folds it up, then pads over to the door and tugs it open. Lambert is toying with another knife, flipping it idly as he stares at the coals; his head comes up, and his yellow eyes catch the light, glowing uncannily. Milena swallows hard. “A - a blanket for you, husband,” she whispers, holding it out.
Lambert’s eyes widen a little, and he makes the knife vanish as he rises. “Thanks,” he says, sounding rather taken aback, and lifts the heavy fabric from her hands.
Milena swallows. “Goodnight, husband.”
“Goodnight,” he says, and she retreats into the bedroom, closing the door firmly and curling up under the covers. Her head is spinning with confusion and still-bitter fear, but thankfully she is far too tired to stay awake.
She falls asleep with his promise still echoing through her mind: Not gonna hurt you. Not gonna force you. Not now, not ever. I swear it on my blood and steel.
Her dreams are full of yellow eyes.