novelraw Chapter 39: Why Do You Weep?
Chapter 39: Why Do You Weep?
"The Lady of Valehart is truly of rare temperament," remarked Baroness Yalian, the wife of a court official, her tone laced with thinly veiled curiosity. "His Lordship dotes so openly upon Lady Yvaine, and yet you remain so composed. Were it I, I fear I would have caused quite a scene by now!"
Caelith lifted slowly her gaze, serene as still water beneath moonlight. Such comments had always been amusing.
"My lord husband has his own judgment," she replied evenly, clutching her thin fingers around the wine goblet. "As a woman of the inner court, it is enough that I uphold my duties."
Baroness Yalian gave a soft, derisive laugh.
"And yet—what lawful wife would willingly watch her husband raise a woman of sullied reputation into his household as a concubine? It is unprecedented to say the least!"
Her words struck cleanly, like a blade laid bare.
Though many efforts had been made to conceal it, the scandal of Yvaine’s disgrace in the back alley had already spread like wildfire among the noble ladies. Everyone was talking about how Lord Dorian Valehart would insist upon bringing such a woman into his household. It had already invited cruel whispers—yet that Caelith herself not only refrained from protest but personally oversaw the arrangements made her the subject of quiet mockery.
Another lady leaned forward, voice sweet but edged––like a knife wrapped in fine silk.
"Lady Yalian speaks true, though. With lady Yvaine’s reputation in such ruin, and His Lordship still determined to take her in... surely, Lady Valehart, your heart must not be at ease? My own heart is breaking for you, truly!"
"And is she not your cousin?" another woman added with a knowing smile. "To have sisters serve the same husband—should word spread, would it not invite laughter throughout the capital? Goodness, I would be utterly embarrassed!"
Caelith was not untouched by such words.
It was not Dorian she cared for—nor Yvaine—but to be thus dissected and ridiculed before all still stirred an ache she could not wholly suppress.
At her side, Dolly bristled, ready to step forward in defense—but a single glance from Caelith stilled her.
Silence, after all, could be sharper than any retort. She had to accept that.
At that moment, the murmur of voices faltered.
Dorian Valehart entered the hall—Yvaine Emberlyn at his side––tall, proud, happy.
At once, the atmosphere shifted.
Yvaine was clad in a soft rose-hued gown, her expression demure, her smile shyly lowered. She regarded the hall like a queen surveying her subjects, throwing sharp glances at every woman present.
Then, she approached Caelith and performed a graceful curtsy.
"My thanks to you, dear sister, for overseeing today’s glorious banquet," she said sweetly. "Once I am settled within the household, I shall serve you with utmost devotion to repay your kindness in full."
"You need not trouble yourself with courtesy," Caelith replied, a faint smile touching her lips—though no warmth reached her eyes. She hid her lips behind the goblet, fearing that her true emotions might come out.
Dorian, evidently pleased by Yvaine’s docility, turned to the gathered guests with a genial expression.
"Yvaine is gentle by nature. I trust you will all look kindly upon her in the days to come."
The assembly responded with polite assent. Laughter and conversation soon resumed, the air growing lively once more.
Yet amid the clamor, Caelith seemed apart from it all—like a solitary figure painted into a crowded scene, present yet untouched.
After a time, she rose.
"My lord," she said to Dorian with a slight bow, "I find myself somewhat unwell. I shall withdraw for a short rest and return anon."
He merely inclined his head. "Go, then."
Without further word, she turned and departed.
Beyond the hall, the noise faded into distant echoes.
A quiet weariness settled over her.
She had grown tired—tired of these gilded walls, of veiled smiles and hidden daggers, of a life where every step must be measured and every word weighed.
Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to the past.
To the sunlit days in the Kingdom of Miaelin—when her parents still lived, when she had been the cherished daughter of a noble house, free of burden, untouched by intrigue.
How distant that world now seemed.
Her parents were gone. Her house had fallen.
And she—left to navigate a den of wolves with nothing but her wits and her will.
Lost in such thoughts, she did not notice the approaching presence—until suddenly, a hand closed around her wrist.
Firm, yet not harsh.
Before she could react, she was drawn forward—into the embrace of a familiar chest.
The scent reached her first.
Cool... like pinewood beneath fresh winter frost.
Her heart jolted.
Startled, she lifted her gaze—only to find herself face to face with Rhaegar Thorne.
It was Rhaegar Thorne.
Before Caelith could so much as speak, he seized her wrist and drew her swiftly away, his stride urgent and unyielding. He led her to the far end of the corridor, where a jagged rockery stood half-veiled in shadow. The moment they came to a halt, his hand rose to the nape of her neck, firm and possessive—and without hesitation, he lowered his head and claimed her lips.
The kiss was fierce, almost punishing.
His grip allowed her no escape, his breath hot against hers as their breaths mingled, quickened. The force of him left her unsteady, her strength slipping from her limbs as though drawn away by the very heat of his touch.
"You would push your husband into another woman’s arms—and feel nothing?" he demanded, his voice low with restrained fury.
At once, her eyes brimmed with heat. Tears gathered, then fell, tracing silent paths down her cheeks.
The sight struck him like a sudden blade.
All at once, his anger dissolved. His hand rose, gentler now, brushing away her tears with a tenderness wholly at odds with his earlier intensity.
"Why do you weep?" he murmured.
"I am not... not grieved that he takes my cousin Yvaine," she said softly, her voice trembling as she leaned against him, seeking unspoken refuge.
Rhaegar frowned slightly. "Then what troubles you so?"