"She wants to reign over Court," Nee stated. "Her interest
in the multitudes of ordinary citizens extends only to the
image of them bowing down to her."
I whistled. "That's a pretty comprehensive judgment."
"Perhaps I have spoken ill," she said contritely. "You must
understand that I don't like my cousin, having endured
indifference or snubs since we were small, an heir's
condescension for a third child of a secondary branch of the
family who would never inherit or amount to much."
"She seemed friendly enough just now."
"The first time she ever addressed me as cousin in public,"
Nee said. "My status appears to have changed since I went away
to Tlanth, affianced to a count, with the possible new king
riding escort." Her voice took on an acidic sort of humor.
"And what about the Duke of Savona?" I asked, his image
vivid in my mind's eye.
"In what sense?" She paused, turning to study my face. "He
is another whose state of mind is impossible to guess."
I was still trying to disentangle all my observations from
that brief meeting. "Is he, well,
twoing
with Lady
Tamara?"
She smiled at the term. "They both are experts at dalliance,
but until last year I had thought they had more interest in
each other than in anyone else," she said carefully. "Though
even that is difficult to say for certain. Interest and
ambition sometimes overlap and sometimes not."
As we wound our way along the path back toward Athanarel in
the deepening gloom, I saw warm golden light inside the palace
windows. With a glorious flicker, glowglobes appeared along the
pathway, suspended in the air like great rainbow-sheened
bubbles, their light soft and benevolent.
"I'm not certain what you mean by that last bit," I said at
last. "As for the first, you said 'until last year.' Does that
mean that Lady Tamara has someone else in view?"
"But of course," Nee said blandly. "The Marquis of
Shevraeth."
I laughed all the way up the steps into the Residence.
EIGHT
"I THINK YOU SHOULD WEAR YOUR HAIR DOWN," Nee said, looking
me over.
"For a dinner? I might kneel on it," I protested.
She smiled. "We'll dine empire style, for Prince Alaerec
will be there."
I remembered from my visit to the Renselaeus palace that
Shevraeth's father had been wounded in the Pirate Wars many
years before. He could walk, but only with difficulty; and he
sat in chairs.
"So wear your hair bound with these." She picked up an
enameled box and opened it. There lay several snowstone hair
ties, with thin silken ribbons hanging down. The ribbons were
all white or silver.
I looked at my reflection. My gown was so dark a violet it
was almost black, and had tiny faceted snowstones embroidered
in lily patterns across the front. Nothing would ever make me
look tall or voluptuous—even after a year of excellent
food, I was exactly as small and scrawny as ever—but the
gown flattered what little figure I had, so I didn't look ten
years old. "All right." I simpered at my reflection. "Think
I'll start a new fashion?"
"I know you will." She laughed. "I want to watch it
happen."
"They might not like me," I said, sitting down on a hassock
while Mora's gentle fingers stroked and fingered my hair.
"Mmmm." Nee watched with the air of an artist looking at a
painting. "Do not give that a thought. You're
interesting—
something new. I think..." She
paused, gestured, and Mora adjusted the thin snowstone band
higher on my brow, making it drape at a graceful angle toward
the back of my head.
"Think what?" I played nervously with the new fan hanging at
my waist.
"What's that?" Nee looked up, her eyes inscrutable for a
moment, then she smiled reassuringly. "I think it will be
fine."
And it started fine.
Branaric joined us out in the hallway, and the three of us
crossed into the State Wing, to an exquisitely decorated parlor
where the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus sat in great carved
bluewood chairs on either side of a splendid fire. Instead of
the customary tiled tiers round the perimeter of the room, the
floor had been leveled to the walls, where there were more of
the chairs. Several guests sat in these, and I mentally
reviewed the etiquette for chairs: knees and feet together,
hands in lap.
The Prince wore black and white. The Princess, who was no
bigger than I, was a vision in silver and pale blue with
quantities of white lace. She had green eyes and
silver-streaked brown hair, and an airy manner. Seated at the
Princess's right hand was a large, elaborately dressed woman
with gray-streaked red hair. Her eyes, so like Galdran's they
prompted in me a prickle of alarm, were bland in expression as
they met my gaze briefly, then looked away. The Marquise of
Merindar? My heart thumped.
"Ah, my dear," Princess Elestra said to me in her fluting
voice—that very same voice I remembered so well from my
escape from Athanarel the year before. "How delighted we are to
have you join us here. Delighted! I understand there will be a
ball in your honor tomorrow, hosted by my nephew Russav." She
nodded toward the other side of the room, where the newly
arrived Duke of Savona stood in the center of a small group.
"He seldom bestirs himself this way, so you must take it as a
compliment to you!"
"Thank you," I murmured, my heart now drumming.
I was glad to move aside and let Branaric take my place. I
didn't hear what he said, but he made them both laugh; then he
too moved aside, and the Prince and Princess presented us to
the red-haired woman, who was indeed the Marquise of Merindar.
She nodded politely but did not speak, nor did she betray the
slightest sign of interest in us.
We were then introduced to the ambassadors from Denlieff,
Hundruith, and Charas al Kherval. This last one, of course,
drew my interest, though I did my best to observe her covertly.
A tall woman of middle age, her manner was polite, gracious,
and utterly opaque.
"Family party, you say?" Branaric's voice caught at my
attention. He rubbed his hands. "Well, you're related one way
or another to half the Court, Danric, so if we've enough people
to hand, how about some music?"
"If you like," said Shevraeth. He'd appeared quietly,
without causing any stir. "It can be arranged." The Marquis was
dressed in sober colors, his hair braided and gemmed for a
formal occasion; though as tall as the flamboyantly dressed
Duke of Savona, he was slender next to his cousin.
He remained very much in the background, talking quietly
with this or that person. The focus of the reception was on the
Prince and Princess, and on Bran and me, and, in a strange way,
on the ambassador from Charas al Kherval. I sensed that
something important was going on below the surface of the
polite chitchat, but I couldn't discern what—and then
suddenly it was time to go in to dinner.
With a graceful bow, the Prince held out his arm to me,
moving with slow deliberation. If it hurt him to walk, he
showed no sign, and his back was straight and his manner
attentive. The Princess went in with Branaric, Shevraeth with
the Marquise, Savona with the Empress's ambassador, and Nimiar
with the southern ambassador. The others trailed in order of
rank.
I managed all right with the chairs and the high table.
After we were served, I stole a few glances at Shevraeth and
the Marquise of Merindar. They conversed in what appeared to be
amity. It was equally true of all the others. Perfectly
controlled, from their fingertips to their serene brows, none
of them betrayed any emotion but polite attentiveness. Only my
brother stood out, his face changing as he talked, his laugh
real when he dropped his fork, his shrug careless. It seemed to
me that the others found him a relief, for the smiles he caused
were quicker, the glances brighter—not that
he
noticed.
Conversation during the meal was light and flowed along like
water, sometimes punctuated by the quick, graceful butterfly
movements of fans. Music, a comical play recently offered by a
famous group of players, future entertainments, the
difficulties of the winter—all were passed under review.
I sat mute, sipping at the exquisite bluewine, which savored of
sunshine and fresh nuts, and listening attentively to the
melodic voices.
When the meal was over, the Princess invited everyone to yet
another room, promising music after hot chocolate.
Dazzled by the glint of jewels and the gleam of silk in the
firelight, I moved slowly until I found myself face-to-face
with Princess Elestra.
"Has my son shown you the library yet, my child?" she asked,
her gently waving fan flicking up for just a moment at the
angle of Confidential Invitation.
"No," I said, instantly ill at ease. "Ah—we just
arrived today, you see, and there hasn't been time to see much
of anything."
"Come. We will slip out a moment. No one will notice." With
a smile, she indicated the corner where Savona was telling some
story, illustrating a sword trick with a fireplace poker amid
laughter and applause. My brother was laughing loudest of
all.
With the smoothest gesture, nod, and bow, she threaded
through the crowd. Then we were suddenly in a quiet hall, its
richness gleaming in the light of a double row of glowglobes
placed in fabulously carved sconces.
"I am told that you like to read," the Princess said as we
turned into an even more formal hall. Liveried servants stood
at either side of the entry, and when they saw my companion,
they bowed, ready for orders. With a little wave, she indicated
the tall double doors between two spectacular tapestries dark
with age. The servants sprang to open these doors.
As we passed inside, I glanced back at the nearest footman
and caught a glimpse of curiosity before his face smoothed into
imperviousness.
"A problem, dear child?"
I turned and saw awareness in the Princess's eyes.
So I said carefully, "I don't want to sound critical, Your
Highness, but I was thinking how horrible it must be to stand
about all day just waiting to open a door, even one as pretty
as those."
"But they don't," she responded with a soft laugh. "They
trade places regularly. Some stand out there, some are hidden
from view waiting for summonses. It is very good training in
patience and discretion, for they all want to advance into
something better."
She touched a glowglobe, and one by one, in rapid
succession, an array of globes flickered, lighting a long room
lined with packed bookshelves.
"The books are all arranged by year," she said, nodding at
the nearest shelves. "These on this wall concern Remalna. All
those there are from other parts of the world. Some real
treasures are numbered among that collection. And under the
windows are plays and songs."
"Plays, Your Highness?" I repeated in surprise. "Do people
write plays down? How can they, when the players change the
play each time they do it?"
She nodded, moving along the shelves as though looking for
something in particular. "In our part of the world, this is so,
and it is common to some of the rest of the world as well. But
there are places where plays are written first—usually
based on true historical occurrence—and performed as
written. It is an old art. At the Empress's Court there is a
current fashion for plays written at least four hundred years
ago, with all their quaint language and custom and
costume."
I thought this over and realized once again how much in the
world I was ignorant of. "I thought plays were about dream
people, that the events had never happened—that the
purpose of plays is to make people laugh."
"There's a fine scholar in the south who has traveled about
the world studying plays, and he maintains that, whether or not
they are based on real experiences, they are the harbingers of
social change," Princess Elestra replied. "Ah! Here we
are."
She pulled down a book, its cover fine red silk, with the
ride in gilt:
The Queen from the Desert.
"I know that book!" I said.
"It is very popular," she responded, then pulled down four
books from nearby, each a different size and thickness. To my
surprise, each had the same title. "We were speaking of plays,
the implication being that history is static. But even it can
change. Look."
I glanced through the histories, all of which were written
in a scribe's exquisite hand. Two of them were purported to be
taken from the queen's own private record, but a quick perusal
of the first few lines showed a vast difference between them.
Two of the books were written by Court-appointed
historians—the heralds—like the one I'd read. One
of them seemed familiar. The other had a lot fewer words and
more decoration in the margins. When I flipped through it, I
noticed there were conversations I didn't remember seeing in
the one I had read.
"So some of these are lies?" I looked up, confused.
"A few are distorted deliberately, but one has to realize
that aside from those, which our best booksellers weed out,
there is truth and truth," the Princess said. "What one person
sees is not always what another sees. To go back to our
histories of the desert queen, we can find a fifth one, written
a century later, wherein her story is scarcely
recognizable—but that one was written as a lampoon of
another queen."
"So... the scribes will change things?" I said.
She nodded. "Sometimes."
"Why?"
She closed the books and returned them to the shelves.
"Occasionally for political reasons, other times because the
scribes think they have a special insight on the truth. Or they
think the subject was dull, so they enliven his or her words.
Court historians are sometimes good, and sometimes foolish ...
and sometimes ambitious. The later histories are often the most
trustworthy. Though they are not immediate, the writers can
refer to memoirs of two or three contemporaries and compare
versions."