In Which Renata Discounts the Sufficiency of Punishment

April 10, 1184

Renata had never liked her son-in-law. Not even when he'd been a child, the firstborn son of a wonderful cousin who'd never been anything but kind to her. He'd been a terrible infant, beyond the level of most--and while his parents had insisted he must have had some sort of discomfort or condition, Renata had seen her fair share of sickly babies, and Felron had not been one of them. Impossible it may have been to think of a baby, she'd firmly believed he'd made himself a nuisance out of pure spite.

He hadn't gotten any better as he'd gotten older, always pushing his siblings around and scheming to get the servants in trouble for no more apparent motive than his own amusement. Renata had once caught him having cornered an old stray dog in a dingy alcove at the threat of torches; the poor thing had wet itself, and she'd hauled the boy herself up to his father's study--interrupting a meeting, even--flung him through the door and let Tertius take care of the rest. Apparently he hadn't done enough, but Renata had long suspected that was not his fault.

Today, she'd learned she had been right. Tertius had not sufficiently punished his son--but only because, somehow, no amount of punishment could ever get through to that vile, downright evil boy.

Rina's life was not over. She would go to the university if Renata had to pay for it herself. She would study what she wanted, and become whatever she wanted to be as a result of that. The world at large was not kind to women, but parts of Naroni were better than most; if Rina cared to be a doctor or a lawyer or pursue some other career in Tetran or Veldorashire, those in power would make sure that no one stopped her.

And if she wanted to marry... well, it was certainly possible that she would! Not all men concerned themselves first and foremost with the prospect of children, for all fools like Felron seemed to think wives little more than biological ovens, baking seed into children like dough into bread. Some men--Renata's own stepson came to mind--came from ailment-ridden lines and sought not to continue them, but still cared for the companionship of a wife and lover. Some men spent months on end away from their homes and needed capable ladies to keep things running in their absence, the thought of babies atop of that load more of a dread than anything else. Hell, some men already had children, children who had no mother, and who needed one, and whose father wished to love again. And some men, like some women, simply had no interest in becoming parents.

Of course Felron had not considered that. All he'd considered was that he had a daughter who was no longer a virgin, and no longer fertile. His only response to that had been to mark her for a God he judged to be as cruel as himself.

Whenever Felron met Him, Renata hoped He would be.

Renata lifted herself from the couch and strode toward her husband's desk. Most of what she could do now had little to do with Felron's punishment, and everything to do with Rina's rehabilitation. She would call on her granddaughter daily, and she would pay handsomely for any comfort the girl might need. She would ask Camaline to excuse Rina from classes on the days her courses called, and she would talk to Raia about every program the university offered, so she could present that information and Rina could make an informed decision when the time came. If Rina wanted it, she'd even start on a list of potential husbands.

If she wrote to Felron, the letter would meet the flames of his hearth rather than his eye. She still recalled the way he'd glared at her as he'd left the church with her daughter, as if he knew she saw right through him. Sometimes, she feared he'd aimed for one of her daughters for the sheer satisfaction of taking something that was hers.

But Xetrica was still her daughter. She may have been too terrified of Felron to stand up for Rina, but she deserved to know that her baby girl was safe and loved, and that Renata and Garrett and everyone else would take good care of her--and that her mother's arms were always open if she ever had enough and wanted to come running back.

She would write to Xetrica. And she would write to Nearina, reassuring her that not all sons were reflections of her mothers, supporting her if and when she chose to further assert her protests. And for all the little point there was, she would write to Tertius, just in case he recovered.

And then she would write some more. She would spare the intimate details of Rina's recent past, but she would make sure that every other lord in Dovia knew that their next Count of Tagrien was a man who had made his gravely ill daughter march all the way to Naroni tethered to the back of his horse, who had been ready to march her back when Mother Elwyna had refused.

Knowing that, perhaps they would not accept him. A count was hardly untouchable in the reach of dukes and kings.

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