Pausing to run my fingers over its small, weather-worn
stones, I wondered if the wall had been set during the time my
mother's family had ruled. Had one of my ancestors looked on
then, and what had been her hopes and fears? What kind of life
had she seen at Athanarel?
Vaulting over into the tall grass on the other side, I
turned my attention to the problem at hand. For there was a
problem, I realized as I emerged from the protective shelter of
silvery-leaved argan trees and looked across the carefully
planted gardens at the house. Its blind windows and slowly
strolling guards served as a reminder of the hidden eyes that
would observe my walking up and demanding to talk to the
heir.
I stepped back beyond the curtain of breeze-stirred leaves
and made my way over a log that crossed a little stream, then
crossed the rough ground on a circuit round the house as I
considered the matter.
I had no conscious plan in mind, but it turned out I did not
need one; when I reached the other side of the house, I
glimpsed through a wall of vines a splendid terrace, and seated
at a table on it was Lord Flauvic. Exquisitely dressed in pale
shades of peach and gray, he was all alone, absorbed in reading
and writing.
I stooped, picked up some small gravel, and tossed it in his
direction.
He went very still. Just for a moment. Then his head turned
deliberately. When he saw me he smiled slightly. Moving with
swift grace, he swung to his feet and crossed the terrace.
"Serenades," he said, "are customarily performed under
moonslight, or have fashions here changed?"
"I don't know," I said. "No one's serenaded me, and as for
my serenading anyone else, even if I wanted to, which I don't,
my singing voice sounds like a sick crow."
"Then to what do I owe the honor of this
delightful—but admittedly unorthodox—visit?"
"That." I demonstrated his gesture with my hands. "You did
that when your mother took me away last night. I want to know
what you meant by it."
His fine brows lifted just slightly, and with leisurely
grace he stepped over the low terrace wall and joined me among
the ferns. "You do favor the blunt, don't you?"
It was phrased as a question, but his lack of surprise
hinted fairly broadly that he'd heard gossip to this effect. My
chin came up; I said, "I favor truth over style."
He retorted in the mildest voice, "Having endured the blunt
style favored by my late Uncle Galdran, which had little to do
with truth as anyone else saw it, I beg you to forgive me when
I admit that I am more dismayed than impressed."
"All right," I said. "So there can be truth with style, as
well as the opposite. It's just that I haven't been raised to
think that I'd find much truth in Court, though there's plenty
of style to spare there."
"Will I seem unnecessarily contentious if I admit that my
own life experience has engendered in me a preference for
style, which at least has the virtue of being diverting?" It
seemed impossible that Flauvic was exactly my age. "Not so
diverting is the regrettable conviction that truth doesn't
exist." His golden eyes were wide and curiously blank.
"Doesn't exist? Of course it does," I exclaimed.
"Is your truth the same as mine? I wonder." He was smiling
just slightly, and his gaze was still as limpid as the stream
rilling at our feet, but I sensed a challenge.
I said gloomily, "All right, then, you've neatly sidestepped
my question—if you even intended to answer it."
He laughed, so softly I just barely heard it, and bowed, his
hands moving in a quick airy gesture. I gasped when I saw the
bouquet of flowers in his hands. As I reached, they poofed into
glowing cinders of every color, which then swirled around and
reformed into butterflies. Then he clapped his hands, and they
vanished.
"Magic!" I exclaimed. "You know magic?"
"This is merely illusion," he said. "It's a kind of fad in
Erev-li-Erval. Or was. No one is permitted to study true magic
unless invited by the Council of Mages, which is overseen by
the Empress."
"I'd love to learn it," I exclaimed. "Real magic or
not."
We were walking, randomly I thought; in the distance I heard
the sweet chiming bells announcing second-gold.
Flauvic shrugged slightly. "I could show you a few tricks,
but I've forgotten most of them. You'd have to ask a play
magician to show you—that's how we learned."
"Play magician?" I repeated.
"Ah," he said. "Plays here in Remalna are still performed on
a bare stage, without illusion to dress it."
"Well, some players now have painted screens and costumes,
as in two plays here during recent days. I take it you haven't
seen them?"
"I rarely leave the house," he said apologetically.
We reached a path just as the beat of horse hooves sounded
from not far ahead. I stepped back; Flauvic looked up as two
riders trotted into view.
My first reaction was blank dismay when I saw Savona and
Shevraeth riding side by side. The three lords greeted one
another with practiced politeness; and when the newcomers
turned to me, I curtsied silently.
By the time I had realized that the very fineness of their
manners was a kind of message, somehow it was agreed—amid
a barrage of mutual compliments—that Flauvic's escort
could be dispensed with and the two would accompany me back to
the Residence. Savona swung down from his mount and took the
reins in hand, falling in step on my left side. Shevraeth, too,
joined me on foot, at my right. They were both informally
dressed—just returning from the swordfightdng practice, I
realized. Meanwhile Flauvic had disappeared, as if he'd
dissolved into the ground.
All my impressions and speculations resolved into one
question: Why did they think I had to be accompanied? "Please
don't think you have to change your direction for my sake," I
said. "I'm just out wandering about, and my steps took me past
Merindar House."
"And lose an opportunity to engage in converse without your
usual crowd of swains?" Savona said, bowing.
"Crowd? Swains?" I repeated, then laughed. "Has the rain
affected your vision? Or am I the blind one? I don't see any
swains. Luckily."
A choke of laughter on my right made me
realize—belatedly—that my comment could be taken as
an insult. "I don't mean you two!" I added hastily and glanced
up at Savona (I couldn't bring myself to look at Shevraeth).
His dark eyes narrowed in mirth.
"About your lack of swains," Savona murmured. "Deric would
be desolated to hear your heartless glee."
I grinned. "I suspect he'd be desolated if I thought him
half serious."
"Implying," Savona said with mendacious shock, "that I am
not serious? My dear Meliara! I assure you I fell in love with
you last year—the very moment I heard that you had
pinched a chicken pie right from under Nenthar Debegri's
twitchy nose, then rode off on his favorite mount, getting
clean away from three ridings of his handpicked warriors."
Taken by surprise, I laughed out loud.
Savona gave me a look of mock consternation. "Now
don't—
please
don't—destroy my faith in
heroism by telling me it's not true."
"Oh, it's true enough, but heroic?" I scoffed. "What's so
heroic about that? I was hungry! Only got one bite of the pie,"
I added with real regret. I was surprised again when both lords
started laughing.
"And then you compounded your attractions by keeping my lazy
cousin on the hop for days." He indicated Shevraeth with an
airy wave of the hand.
Those memories effectively banished my mirth. For it wasn't
just Galdran's bullying cousin Baron Debegri who had chased me
halfway across the kingdom after my escape from Athanarel.
Shevraeth had been there as well. I felt my shoulders tighten
against the old embarrassment, but I tried not to show it,
responding as lightly as I could. "On the contrary, it was he
who kept me on the hop for days. Very long days," I said. And
because the subject had been broached and I was already
embarrassed, I risked a quick look at the Marquis and asked,
"When you said to search the houses. In the lake town. Did you
know I was inside one?"
He hesitated, looking across at Savona, who merely grinned
at us both. Then Shevraeth said somewhat drily, "I... had a
sense of it."
"And outside Thoresk. When you and Debegri rode by. You
looked right at me. Did you know that was me?"
"Will it make you very angry if I admit that I did? But the
timing seemed inopportune for us to, ah, reacquaint ourselves."
All this was said with his customary drawl. But I had a feeling
he was bracing for attack.
I sighed. "I'm not angry. I know now that you weren't trying
to get me killed, but to keep me from getting killed by Debegri
and Galdran's people. Except—well, never mind. The whole
thing is stupid."
"Come then," Savona said immediately. "Forgive me for
straying into memories you'd rather leave behind, and let us
instead discuss tonight's prospective delights."
He continued with a stream of small talk about the latest
entertainments—all easy, unexceptionable conversation.
Slowly I relaxed, though I never dared look at Shevraeth
again.
So it was another unpleasant surprise when I glanced down an
adjoining pathway to find the tight-lipped face of Lady Tamara
framed in a truly spectacular walking hat.
Tight-lipped for the barest moment. In the space of a blink
she was smiling prettily, greeting me with lavish compliments
as she fell in step on my right. Shevraeth moved to the outside
of the path to make room, his gray still following obediently
behind.
The conversation went on, but this time it was Tamara who
was the focus. When we reached the bridge just before the rose
garden where several paths intersected, she turned suddenly to
me. "You did promise me, my dear Countess, a little of your
time. I think I will hold you to that promise, perhaps tomorrow
evening?"
"I—well—" Answers and images cartwheeled wildly
through my mind. "I think—that is, if I haven't
forgotten—"
She spoke across me to Savona. "You'll have the evening
free?"
He bowed; though I hadn't heard or seen anything untoward in
that brief exchange, I saw her eyes narrow just the slightest
degree. Then she looked up over her shoulder at Shevraeth. "And
you, Vidanric?"
"Regrettably, my mother has a previous claim on me," he
said.
Tamara flicked a curtsy, then turned back to me. "I'll
invite a few more of your many friends. Do not distress me with
a refusal."
There was no polite way to get around that, or if there was,
it was beyond my skills. "Of course," I said. "Be
delighted."
She curtsied gravely, then began talking with enviable ease
about the latest play.
Silent, I walked along until we came to an intersection.
Then I whirled to face them all. "I fear I have to leave you
all now. Good day!" I swept a general curtsy then fled.
When I returned from that night's dinner party at Nee's
family's house, I found two letters on my table. One was
immediately recognizable as Oria's weekly report on Tlanth's
affairs, which I left for later; Tlanth had been flourishing
peacefully. All my problems were here.
The second letter was sealed plainly, with no crest. I flung
myself onto my pillows, broke the seal impatiently, and
read:
My Dear Countess:
You say you would prefer discourse to gifts. I am yours
to command. I will confess my hesitancy was due largely to my
own confusion. It seems, from my vantage anyway, that you are
surrounded by people in whom you could confide and from whom
you could obtain excellent advice. Your turning to a faceless
stranger for both could be ascribed to a taste for the
idiosyncratic if not to mere caprice.
I winced and dropped the paper to the table. "Well, I asked
for the truth," I muttered, and picked it up again.
But I am willing to serve as foil, if foil you require.
Judging from what you reported of your conversation with your
lady of high rank, the insights you requested are these: First,
with regard to her hint that someone else in power lied about
rendering assistance at a crucial moment the year previous, you
will not see either contender for power with any clarity until
you ascertain which of them is telling the truth.
Second, she wishes to attach you to her cause. From my
limited understanding of said lady, I suspect she would not so
bestir herself unless she believed you to be in, at least
potentially, a position of influence.
There was no signature, no closing.
I read it through three times, then folded it carefully and
fitted it inside one of my books.
Pulling a fresh sheet of paper before me, I wrote:
Dear Unknown:
The only foil—actually, fool—here is me,
which isn't any pleasure to write. But I don't want to talk
about my past mistakes, I just want to learn to avoid making
the same or like ones in future. Your advice about the event of
last year (an escape) I thought of already and have begun my
investigation. As for this putative position of power, it's
just that. I expect you're being confused by my
proximity
to power—my brother being friend to the possible king
and my living here in the Residence. But believe me, no one
could possibly be more ignorant or less influential than
I.
With a sense of relief I folded that letter up, sealed it,
and gave it to Mora to send along the usual route. Then I went
gratefully to sleep.
I dressed carefully for Tamara's party, choosing a gown that
became me well—the effect of knowing one looks one's best
is enormously bracing—but which was subdued enough that
even the most critical observer could not fault me for
attempting to draw the eye from my beautiful hostess.
Neither Bran nor Nee was invited, which dismayed me. I
remembered Tamara having promised to invite my friends, and I
knew I would have refused had I known Bran and Nee would be
overlooked. But Nee insisted it would be a terrible slight not
to go, so alone I went.
And nothing could have been more gracious than my welcome.
With her own hands Tamara pressed a glace of iced punch on me.
The liquid was astringent with citrus and blended fruit
flavors. "Do you like it, Countess?" she said, her brows raised
in an anxious line. "It is a special order. I tried so hard to
find something new to please you."
"It's wonderful," I said, swallowing a second sip. My throat
burned a little, but another sip of the cool drink soothed
that. "Lovely!"
"Please drink up—I'll get you another," she said,
smiling as she led me to the honored place by the fire.
And she waited on me herself, never permitting me to rise. I
sat there and sipped at my punch cup, which never seemed to be
empty, and tried to follow the swift give and take of the
conversational circle. The talk reminded me of a spring river,
moving rapidly with great splashes of wit over quite a range of
territory. Like a river, it wound and doubled back and split
and re-formed; as the evening progressed I had more and more
difficulty navigating in it. I was increasingly distracted by
the glowing candles, and by the brilliance with which the
colorful fabrics and jewels and embroidery reflected back the
golden light. Faces, too, caught my eye, though at times I
couldn't follow what the speakers said. With a kind of fixed
attention I watched the swift ebb and flow of emotion in eyes,
and cheeks, and around mouths, and in the gesturing of hands
with or without fans.
Then suddenly Tamara was before me. "But we have strayed far
enough from our purpose. Come, friends. I bid you to be silent.
The Countess did promise to entertain us by describing her
adventures in the late war."
I did?
I thought, trying to recall what she'd
said—and what I'd promised. My thoughts were tangled,
mixing present with memory, and finally I shook my head and
looked around. Every face was turned expectantly toward me.
My vision seemed to be swimming gently. "Uh," I said.
"Mouth dry?" Tamara's voice was right behind me. "Something
to wet it." She pressed a chilled goblet into my hands.
I raised it and saw Savona directly across from me, a slight
frown between his brows. He glanced from me to Tamara, then I
blocked him from my view as I took a deep sip of
iced—bristic.
A cold burn numbed my mouth and throat, and my hand started
to drop. Fingers nipped the goblet from mine before I could
spill it. I realized I had been about to spill it and looked
aside, wondering how I'd gotten so clumsy. My hand seemed a
long way from my body.
Even farther away was Tamara's voice. "Did you really fight
a duel to the death with our late king?"
"It was more of a duel to the—" I felt the room lurch
as I stood up.
That was a mistake.
"A duel," I repeated slowly, "to—" I wetted my lips
again. "To—burn it! I actually had a witty saying. Per
onsh... once. What's wrong with my mouth? A duel to the dust!"
I giggled inanely, then noticed that no one else was laughing.
I blinked, trying to see, to explain. "He knocked me outa the
saddle ... y'see ... an' I fell in the—in the—"
Words were no longer possible, but I hardly noticed. The
room had begun to revolve with gathering speed. I lost my
footing and started to pitch forward, but before I could land
on my face, strong hands caught my shoulders and righted
me.
I blinked up into a pair of very dark eyes. "You're not
well," said Savona. "I will escort you back to the
Residence."
I hiccuped, then made a profound discovery. "I'm drunk," I
said and, as if to prove it, was sick all over Lady Tamara's
exquisite carpet.
THIRTEEN
I WOKE UP FEELING TERRIBLE, IN BODY AND IN SPIRIT. I
recalled Nee's exhortations about drinking, and control, and
how it was a sure way to social ruin. Our grandparents had
apparently considered it fashionable to drink until one was
insensate, but during Galdran's threat, that had changed. Was I
socially finished?
A light scent like fresh-cut summer grass reached me; I
turned my head, wincing against the pounding inside my skull,
and saw a teacup sitting on a plate beside my bed. Steam curled
up from it. For a time I watched the steam with a strange,
detached sort of pleasure. My eyes seemed to ache a little
less; the scent made me feel incrementally better.
"Can you drink this, my lady?" a soft voice murmured.
I turned my head. "Mora," I croaked. "I think I got
drunk."
"Yes, my lady."