Chapter Text
Being the Lord Protector's wife came with far more fuss than Prunaprismia liked.
New clothing, new colours, new court. If Miraz's plans came to full fruition, then eventually she would have to do it all over again— as Queen.
When she was married, young but far from callow, to Miraz she did not have any disillusions about the life that awaited her at his side; a political alliance turned into an opportunity for his legacy to take shape in a son. It was not an exciting prospect.
Even so, her most cynical predictions had not seen her languishing in boredom as yet another noble pushed their wide-eyed daughter before her in an effort to find favour.
She smiled politely and nodded them on. The mother curtseyed, the father bowed, the daughter hid behind her mother's dress and scurried away in her parents' hands. Such was the story of each of the girls she had seen in the past hour.
Looking around the room, she found that the other prospective noble young ladies were either as shy as the ones before her, or as disinterested as she was hiding.
She restrained a sigh. Her eyes alighted on a private corner— the one where the less courtly Lords, the ones from distant and coastal provinces, often gathered.
Something— someone caught her eye.
Lord Drinian had his niece with him.
The girl was not striking in any way. A sailor's daughter, related to nobility by her mother and thus not noble at all. Red-haired, freckled, and tall for her age, she avoided the gaze of those around her and made no effort to engage anyone apart from her uncle— with whom she conversed extensively. It was well that she avoided socialising, for any fool that approached her seemed put off by her demeanour alone.
Not pretty. Not charismatic. Not high-born.
Perfect.
Prunaprismia stood and approached the insular pair.
"Lord Drinian," she greeted cordially, "I believe I have yet to be introduced to your companion."
"My Lady," he said in his usual manner— that is, polite for the sake of appearance with a curt edge, "this is Ianthe. My sister's eldest child."
"Ianthe. A pleasant name."
"Named after her grandmother."
"Fascinating. As I am sure you know, I am in need of little girls to make into ladies. And I believe your Ianthe would make a fine one."
Drinian's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"
"I did not stutter, my Lord." She turned to the girl. "How would you like that, Ianthe? To come live with me?"
Ianthe almost shook her head; Prunaprismia caught the way her head twitched before she thought better of it and only looked at her uncle with wide eyes.
Poor thing. Only ten and already learning how to appease the adults around her. Then again, if the rumours she heard of the girl's father were true, it was no surprise.
"It… is not the done thing, my Lady, She is not noble," Drinian said carefully.
"No matter."
"I would have to ask her mother."
"Crisanta is a clever, wise woman. She'll do the right thing for her daughter, I'm sure."
Prunaprismia reached out to tuck a red curl behind Ianthe's ear. The gesture was deliberately maternal.
"If little Ianthe lives with me, she will have so many opportunities. Writing, reading, courtly manners. All good things, yes?" She did not wait for Drinian to reply before continuing. "Do ask Crisanta soon. My decision must be made by next week, and I should hate for Ianthe to miss out."
With that, she glided away. The court watched her. At that moment, she was the most important woman there; something she was relying on if her small act of defiance was not to sour for her.
Miraz had entered not moments ago, and was watching her with barely concealed thunder in the tightened corners of his cheeks.
"A low-born Lady, wife? How… unusual," he hissed, taking her arm with more force than necessary when she offered it.
"I see potential in her, husband."
"Potential."
"She has many brothers and sisters. Should we have a child, she will be very useful."
Appealing to Miraz's conniving nature was a tactic she had learned long before they had wed.
He thought over it.
Then: "Let it not be said I never indulged my wife's whims."
"Thank you, Lord Miraz."
"Be careful, dear."
Prunaprismia turned and glanced over at Ianthe. Something about the girl's eyes had her pausing.
Cut open— that gaze, dark and old despite the youthful face it came from, was cutting her open. Did Ianthe know; know that she was little more to Prunaprismia than a piece in a wider game?
She turned away and did not think of the chill that overcame her.
"A Lady-in-waiting?"
Ianthe swung her feet from where she was sat in her mother's lap. She chewed on a thumbnail, half listening to the adults' conversation around her, half drifting into pretty daydreams of beautiful dresses and time spent languishing in the woods.
"Aye. And from how she said it, we don't have much choice in the matter."
Crisanta sighed deeply. "It's so far away. She's still so little…"
Ianthe looked up. Her mother smoothed her hair down, wishing she could scrub that woman's touch from her daughter's skin. Ianthe beamed. The sight only made Crisanta's heart break further.
"Think about it, Crisanta. She'll get an education. Guaranteed protection. You've already spoken to me of how the girl's father—"
"Not in front of her."
Drinian grimaced. "Of his difficulties, then. You'll see her every year, still, and you could always visit with me. It's… it's not pleasant, but it might just be the best thing."
"She loves Mossbridge."
"She may love it here. You should have seen her face when she first saw the castle."
Ianthe perked up at the mention of it.
"My best friend is in there," she said, matter of fact.
"Of course she is, darling," Crisanta replied.
"He. He's in there."
"Very good," Drinian patted her head, and Ianthe returned to her daydreams.
He sighed and turned back to his sister. "Look, do what you think is best, but… I don't know. My gut is telling me this is the direction to go in."
Crisanta resisted the urge to tell him he was not her parent, and thus his gut had no influence on the decision. In truth, Drinian may as well be Ianthe's father; from the day she was born he had doted on her in his own dry, stern way, and knew her so well it was uncanny.
She could only be grateful. There was a void in Ianthe's life— and Drinian filled it well.
"It's getting worse," she said softly.
Drinian touched her hand. "I know. So let me take her away from it."
Crisanta nodded. Shutting her eyes tight, she kissed Ianthe's head.
"Aslan's blessing upon you, my girl," she whispered. "You'll certainly need it."