The Bitterbynde Trilogy (79 page)

Testing the new powers springing from wealth and recognition, as a youth suddenly waking to manhood would experimentally flex expanded sinews, the prospective Baroness Rohain Tarrenys inquired discreetly after her friends. Messengers were dispatched, returning with the news that both Muirne and Diarmid had been accepted for military service and were training at Isenhammer. Farther afield, of the itinerant Maeve One-Eye there was no sign, which was not surprising, given the current season: Winter was the tenancy of the Coillach Gairm. Inquiries at Gilvaris Tarv resulted in a message via Stormriders that the carlin Ethlinn Kavanagh-Bruadair also had ventured abroad in response to the subliminal call of the Winter Hag, or possibly only from habit. Her whereabouts were unknown. Roisin Tuillimh still dwelt at Tarv, hale and hearty. To Roisin, Muirne, and Diarmid, Rohain anonymously sent gifts. She wished to share her good fortune without revealing a past identity that, certainly at Court, would transform her into the subject of scandal and possibly revulsion.

Of Thorn, she dared not inquire, even discreetly, for she guessed that the Dainnan knights had ways of knowing what was whispered about any of their number. She existed in a paradoxical state between fear of meeting him again and hope of it. While her face had been masked by ugliness and there had been no question of her feelings being reciprocated, to adore him in secret had been the only possibility. She had been able to say to herself, ‘He cannot look upon me with favour; I am not worthy, but if I could be otherwise, he might look again.' Now that a fairer face was revealed, she was vulnerable. If he should look upon her and dismiss her, it would be a rejection of the best she could be, rather than the worst, and thus the ultimate rebuff.

There was no doubt that Thorn had been kind to her, but kindness was of his nature. Besides, that benevolence had also been extended to Diarmid. Of the meaning of the parting kiss, she could not be certain. Had he bestowed it out of pity or—against logic—out of liking? On impulse, but with enough forethought to do it where no other eyes could bear witness? If the latter, then he would have regretted it afterward, in which case he would not wish to be reminded of his folly by a stranger who had infiltrated Court by means of deception. No: her past association with the dark-haired Dainnan warrior was like a jewel of the most rare and precious kind, but so fragile that should the rigorous light of day fall upon it, it might crack asunder, crumble away. It must be locked away in the darkness of her mind's vault, to be cherished and kept entire, even though its loveliness could never in actuality be enjoyed again.

Without meeting him, the potential existed for happiness. There could be no risk. Yet she looked for his presence everywhere, as a lost wanderer would scan for any sign of water in a desert wasteland. The first glimpse of long black hair flowing over broad shoulders never failed to make her heart turn over. All sweetness, all joy, all light existed by his side, wherever he might be, and to be without his voice, the sight of him, the proximity of him, was to secretly live in wretchedness.

Sad longing dwelt on an inner level. Only a heart of stone could remain cold amid the festive revelry that day by day ascended toward its height. What was more, Rohain found herself surrounded by convivial company. Chief among these were Viviana, the irrepressible Thomas of Ercildoune, the Duchess Alys-Jannetta, Roxburgh's wife, with whom she had formed a friendship, and, in a surprising turn of events—or perhaps not so surprising—her erstwhile foe Dianella and that lady's faddish coterie. Now that she was to become a peer in her own right, was fêted for her role in adding to the coffers of the Royal Treasury, and moreover appeared to be glaringly in favour with the King-Emperor and the greatest aristocrats at Court, Rohain had been accepted Into the Set.

Whether due to this fact or some other, a goodly number of dashing sons of peers both In and Out of the Set seemed to find her companionship to their taste. They were constantly begging her to wear their favours upon her sleeve when they engaged their rivals with rapiers, at dawn, in secluded places. Like fighting cocks they tiresomely challenged each other to illicit duels over trivial hurts to their pride—contests that seldom eventuated. Some excuse was usually discovered at the eleventh hour, some pretext that allowed both parties to retire with dignity and intact flesh. Rohain scarcely had more than a moment to spare for each of these heroes. Invitations from Dianella, Calprisia, Elmaretta, Percival, Jasper, and the rest of the trend-setting circle continually bombarded her. Would she come gathering ivy and spruce in the King's Greenwood? It would be such an amusing jaunt, with just enough danger to spice it, although only seelie wights were said to dwell there and the excursion would be guarded by outriders and carriage dogs accompanying the barouches! Would she come glissanding there, or hunting? Did she like to ride to the hounds? Would she come and view the new dress Dianella's tailor was sewing for her to wear on New Year's Eve? Would she come fishing upon the sea, or ice-skating on the frozen mountain lake where they were going in the Windship of the Lord High Wizard Sargoth? And so on.

Not to appear unsociable, Rohain accepted their entreaties for her company, and they drew her into their sophisticated, butterfly crowd with joyousness, teaching her a smattering of slingua so that she could become truly as they. Their activities, in fact, turned out to be novel and diverting; their chatter boring. Rohain was glad enough of Ercildoune's frequent presence as an excuse to desert them. Taking advantage of a break in the inclement weather, she strolled away with him in the Winter Garden, their attendants keeping at a discreet distance among the trees. Caermelor Palace boasted a garden for every season of the year, each walled off from the others so that its individual theme could be enjoyed.

‘You shall, of course, remain at Court until well after Imbrol,' said the Bard. ‘Much time may elapse until your new title, Baroness of Arcune, is invested. Nothing can be done to advance the proclamation of your title and the securing of your estate until after the festive season.'

‘I understood, sir, that one is normally presented to the King-Emperor
before
residing at his Court. I have not yet been granted the honour of an audience with His Majesty.'

‘You speak knowledgeably, my dear, but these are troubled times. With the situation as it is in the north, with all this to-ing and fro-ing, councils and moots and so forth, normal procedures fall by the wayside. The King-Emperor is busy now as Imbrol approaches, and who knows but that at any time there may be a sudden escalation of belligerence in Namarre, leading to further need of his attention at the borders. Howbeit, it is not necessary for these military matters to hinder the bestowal of honours upon you. The title can be officially recognised merely by issue of Letters Patent granting full privileges of the honour and the posting and proclamation. Still, in good sooth, 'twould be a pity not to receive the peerage from the hands of our Sovereign himself, with all due pomp.'

There were no fountains in the Winter Garden. The walks were lined instead with marble pedestals whose bases, dados, and entablements were richly carved. Atop these pedestals, great bowls of stone cupped living fires whose flames leaped like the petals of giant stained-glass magnolias.

Evergreens spread resinous boughs or stood virgate, as if upholding the sky, or else modestly wept. Barberry and cotoneaster hedges popped with ripe scarlet spheres. Here, too, grew laurels with dark purple fruits, and firethorns with their startling orange.

‘I suppose I shall remain,' said Rohain after some thought. Like a shimmerfly cloyed with honey, she felt herself to be trapped by a kind of inertia, mired in the sweetness of the luxurious Court environment. Indecision played a major part in her proposal to linger.

‘Marry,' said the Bard poetically and somewhat whimsically, ‘had you other plans? To return to the Sorrow Isles and tell your people of your fortune?'

‘No.'

‘I confess, I am glad of that,' he said suddenly. ‘A confirmed bachelor have I always been, and vowed to remain, for I love the fair sex too much to restrict myself to the company of only one of their number. Despite this I find myself half inclined to pay you court.'

His companion turned to him in astonishment.

‘Look not askance, my lady! Am I not but one more in a long line of suitors?'

‘Indeed, no!' she said emphatically.

‘Then, what say you? Or is your heart already given, as I suspect?'

‘Well, since you ask it—yes, my heart is already given.'

‘Alas.'

His chest heaved with a gentle sigh. Subdued, they walked a little farther along the lakeside path where sharp-eyed robins bounced like plump berries, past a stone gazebo whose pillars repeated their symmetries and patterns in the water. Rohain could scarcely believe what she had heard—that she should have received homage from one of the highest in the land.

‘Then,' said the Bard, ‘I will not speak of courting again. However, if you should chance to receive your heart again, will you think of me?'

‘Most certainly, sir.'

‘And meanwhile, shall we remain friends?'

‘Indeed! And sir, you honour me too much. I am not worthy.'

‘Alas,' sighed the Bard once more, ‘I was ever a slave to a fair face.'

Rohain stopped in her tracks, confused.

‘A fair face?' she repeated.

‘As fair as any I have seen,' he said. ‘And when animated, so that hectic roses bloom in the cheeks and a sparkle sets fire to the eyes, why, 'tis above all others most comely. 'Pon my troth, you are exquisite in every measure!' He laughed. ‘Like all women, my lady of the Sorrows loves praise, and it comes sweeter from True Thomas, verily, for 'tis not flattery but truth.'

The girl leaned out over the still surface of the lake. Like quicksilver, it gleamed.

‘Mind!' he warned. ‘Do not fall! 'Tis not the season for swimming!'

She did not hear him. Her taltry-enclosed face looked up at her from the water, framed by branches of evergreens, backed by the metallic sky.

‘I cannot see it myself,' she said with a frown.

‘What? Brazen modesty?'

She straightened and turned to him.

‘Nay!' he said, and it was his turn to be surprised as he read the honesty in her expression. ‘Not false humility. You see no special virtue in your own features. Odd! But charming. Let me assure you, my dear, that you are alone in your opinion. Ah, Rohain, I understated just now, thinking that you would know I jested, but I am too accustomed to the complex cerebrations of courtiers. Let me now do you justice—hearken—for yours is a beauty more radiant than a flame, more perfect than a snowflake, more enchanting than music, more astonishing than truth, and more poignant than the parting of lovers who know not whether they will ever meet again.'

‘You mock me, sir!'

Soberly he shook his head. ‘Not at all. When I look at you, my eyes are filled with a beauty to ache for, to make tyrants and slaves of men, a beauty to beware of. Be aware of it; others are.'

‘Gramercie,' she stammered, nonplussed.

It was a revelation.

Once, between engagements, Rohain borrowed Ercildoune's coach-and-four. His coachman drove her to Isenhammer. From high on the hill overlooking the town, the drill, parades, and training exercises of the recruits for the Royal Legion Reserves were clearly visible below. Having descended, she moved among the young cavalrymen, foot soldiers, and archers, escorted by her lady's maid and two footmen.

The feeling of tension among the recruits was almost palpable. It was like the pulled-back string of a bow, on the point of letting the arrow fly. They executed their drill with extreme dedication and concentration. Sometimes, involuntarily, their eyes slid toward a certain horizon, their heads turning, in the gesture Rohain knew so well. The north: what dire events were brewing there, so far away?

Diarmid and Muirne, in cadet uniform of the Legion, appeared hale and content. They did not know her, nor did she wish that they should. She had no desire to receive thanks for the costly gifts she had sent them, nor did she want to behold the aloofness or perhaps distrust that would appear in their eyes should she reveal her identity.

It was not that she shunned her friends, but that she did not see how she might fit in with their chosen life-paths. It was her intention to ask them to share her new estate when the procedures were finalized. For now, she wanted to ensure that they dwelled in comfort, lacking nothing. She returned to Caermelor without having spoken to them.

Imbrol drew nigh. Meanwhile, Viviana Wellesley seemed to be enjoying her latest role.

‘It is quite a feather in m'lady's cap, to have been invited to meet the Lady Maiwenna,' she raved enthusiastically. ‘She does not mingle with many people at Court, for her manner is quite reserved. When I saw the two of you together, I thought you looked almost like sisters in some respect.'

Rohain's spirits had been lifted by eager suspense when Ercildoune introduced her to the Talith gentlewoman who was said to be the last of the Royal Family of Avlantia. Yet her hopes were shattered. No recognition had registered in the green eyes of that golden damsel.

Her own hair was showing the slightest trace of a buttercup glimmer against the scalp, but this had not yet become apparent to anyone but herself. The elaborate, close-fitting headdresses fashionable at Court concealed her hairline. Her maidservant, busy chattering and clattering about with jeweled combs during the tedious coiffing sessions, had remained oblivious of the colour contrast. By the way she habitually held her hand-work at arm's length, squinting, Rohain suspected her of long-sightedness or poor vision.

‘Howbeit, no one can compare with my lady, of course,' Viviana prattled on. ‘Upon my word, if I may take the liberty of saying so, my lady's face and figure are the envy of the Court. Such elegant limbs—no wider than my wrist, I'd swear—and a waist the size of my neck!'