Once those girl cousins married off, there was nothing keeping Colt at Cassad—meanwhile, all his connections southward talked of Nyidri lies and rapacity. The Feravayir tax guild turned out to be all jarlan appointees, getting their cut of the extra taxes. The Olavayirs, typically, were either blind, ignorant, or indifferent, busy with their northern wars...and so Colt had a Cause.
Gathering like-minded riding mates, he set out to sting the Nyidris where it would hurt most: in the money chests.
Though the weather was miserable all the way to Darchelde, the many pages in Lineas’s journal devoted to that journey scarcely mention it. A reader could be forgiven for assuming it was summer; later she’d remember it as a halcyon time, for she and Quill not only shared a tent—as runners often did—they shared a sleeping roll. His face was the first thing she saw each morning, disarming in sleep, entrancing when she watched the soft, veined skin of his eyelids lift and their gazes blended, igniting mutual heat.
One bleak morning a week into their journey, Hliss warmed Blossom’s mittens over the fire while watching Lineas set out breakfast. Hliss said with a rueful glance, “Why are you smiling, Lineas? Nobody else is. There’s nothing to smile about in rivers of mud and the threat of yet more sleet. I’m beginning to believe you aren’t quite human.”
Lineas blushed a deep red, clashing with the brightness of her hair, then she saw the humor in Hliss’s gaze, and understood that conversation would be a welcome distraction. And, being Lineas, either she was silent, or (if she trusted the person she spoke with) she talked about what was on her mind. She had never mastered social chatter.
“It’s the middle part of love,” she said. “I think I like it best.”
“How much longer?” Blossom said fretfully, digging her wooden spoon into the jam-laced porridge.
“Days,” her mother said, as she had each of the previous five mornings. Blossom would learn to endure just as fast without being scolded. “Lay aside your spoon a moment and put these mittens on. They’re nice and warm. Bring your bowl here so I can braid your hair.” And with the child sitting cross-legged before her, Hliss looked up at Lineas. “What is the middle part of love?”
“Maybe there’s a better word?” Lineas said. “There’s the fire of admiration and desire, when you simply see the person. At the other end there’s the fire when the one you desire reaches for you. But in the middle there’s looking at the person’s clothes, and liking to touch them when you fold them. And hearing his voice outside, talking to others. There’s watching how he holds a biscuit, how he runs his hand over the saddle’s belly band and the halter. All those things are...precious.”
She cupped her thin hands and held them close to her chest. “And then seeing that the other feels the same about you. Is that so ordinary no one else thinks of it? I’ve only had two relationships. The first, the admiration is there still, though the third has gone away. But the middle...was never there.”
Hliss’s brows twitched upward. “Sounds like the whole range of love. Though I suspect we all define it differently. I gather Connar was careless with his things? That doesn’t sound like him.”
Lineas wasn’t certain that mentioning Connar’s name was somehow disloyal, or inappropriate, but Hliss’s matter-of-fact tone reassured her. “Oh, he’s not careless with his things—very much the opposite—he likes things just so. But he has Fish to oversee it all. And....” Lineas looked out the open tent flap at the bleak threat of clouds, and the uniform brown of the muddy landscape. “On Restday a couple days ago I dropped the cloak I was mending and ran out when Blossom called for me. When I got back, Quill had not only finished mending my cloak, he had folded it. I apologized for leaving it that way, and he told me he enjoyed matching my stitches. And folding it brought me closer. With Connar...there was never any of that. With me,” she amended quickly. “Of course he might feel differently about others he’s closer to.”
Hliss was fairly certain that Connar had been closer to Lineas than to anyone else, and for longer. But Connar was a subject she tended to avoid discussing with anyone besides Camerend.
Hliss said, “In my experience—which might not match anyone else’s—what you call the middle is real love. The other two ends are more akin to lust, which are fun, as long as they last.”
Lineas cocked her head. “So you’re saying lust doesn’t last even when one has the middle part?”
“I think everybody is different,” Hliss stated, and correctly interpreted the anxious pucker in Lineas’s usually tranquil brow. “Some mate with one person for life, and neither love nor lust ever fade to indifference.”
Lineas let out her breath in a sigh. “That is so, so my hope.”
It was Quill’s hope as well. He had inherited both his parents’ inclinations toward monogamy, and even while he’d taken his father’s advice to get as much experience as he could during his years of travel, his thoughts had always come back to Lineas.
And so, one morning not far from Darchelde’s border, as rain thudded against their tent, Lineas woke to find Quill watching her. There was no mistaking the tenderness in his eyes. He said, “Marry me.”
“Yes,” she whispered, thrilling in every nerve. “When?”
“As soon as we reach Darchelde. No, let’s wait for New Year’s. It’s traditional, and since I don’t plan ever to marry again, and I’m the only Montredavan-An child, they’ll want to make a festival of it. As long as we don’t get orders between our arrival and then, New Year’s Week?”
With Quill, she had ceased to worry about sneaking out to be bathed and in fresh clothes whenever he turned her way. Though it was morning, and she’d had nothing to eat or drink since the night before, she kissed him in answer—and he kissed her back with a hunger to match hers.
New Year’s Firstday was Oath Day everywhere in the Sartoran-influenced part of the world. When Convocation was not held in Marlovan Iasca, this and MidSummer Day were frequent days for weddings.
In the eight festival days between the close of the year 4086 and Firstday 4087, there were six weddings held in the kingdom’s castles.
Two of them are my focus here, the first taking place in the magnificent castle in Darchelde, home of the Montredavan-Ans, as Camerend’s only son, Senrid (known as Quill), married Lineas Noth, a descendent of Whipstick’s eldest boy.
Lineas was intensely aware, even at the sublime heights of happiness after exchanging rings and vows with Quill, how conditional such happiness was. She had feared a summons every day as soon as they had crossed the border. As she drank the wedding cup and then led the women in the first dance, she dreaded the appearance of the inevitable summons to duty, pulling them away from the glow of happiness and throwing them back into the churn of danger and politics. With another long separation, of course.
Both her parents attended the wedding, with their current partners, old and comfortable friends all. Isa Eris, Quill’s mother, had even come out of hiding, her beloved Frin always at her side, and for the sake of her son endured the emotional barrage of many people in a small space. Those who noticed she never touched anything, including the food, looked away again, familiar with her oddities.
Though few understood her, that was not true for Isa, who secluded herself against seeing far more than she might have wished both of the living and the dead. But what she saw of Lineas, whom she’d glimpsed over the years since the early days when she had attempted to teach the girl magic, she approved. Her son had chosen well.
She also saw below the superficial elation, and caught Lineas between dances, to say, “I will withdraw presently, but I wished first to offer an observation.”
Lineas wiped her brow, having just finished an exhilarating dance with the other women. Her smile faded as her eyes widened with concern.
Isa touched her cheek, a gesture very rare indeed—and one that Lineas appreciated. “You have a good soul,” she said. “And the makings of a good life. You’ve been taught to be watchful, and it is well. But I can see in your eyes, in your si
lences between speakings, that dread shadows the sun of your joy.”
Lineas reddened.
“This is not a scold, darling child. Let me invite you to consider my words. All things become memory. You know this to be true. So revel in bliss with a whole heart while it lasts, so that you do not look back in later years and see only its shadow amid a long chain of worries that no longer matter.”
Lineas flushed. “Thank you,” she said, hand flat to her breast in salute. “I know it’s a fault of mine. I need that reminder.”
“There are worse faults,” Isa said softly. “I am sure you’ve discovered that Senrid is quick. Quicker, perhaps, than he lets the world know. I believe you would not wish him to shoulder those dreads on your behalf when he, too, reads them in your eyes.”
“Yes,” Lineas whispered, and Isa passed on by.
Frin lingered, a tall woman with a direct gaze. Lineas forced a smile, though Isa’s words had chilled her. “Aunt Frin, thank you for coming.”
Frin stepped closer. “Do you have a wedding gift for young Senrid?”
Quill had said they could take their time with such things, as neither of them had come to Darchelde with anything but their travel packs. One of the many things she loved about him was how he avoided reminding her that one day all Darchelde would be his, and effectively he could command anything he wanted there, while she had nothing but the clothes she made for herself, and her journals.
She raised her gaze to Frin’s. “We agreed to forego that tradition for now.”
“If you should change your mind, I know what he would like, and you could compass it, if you will.”
“What’s that?”
“You still like embroidery, do you not? I know you did as a girl.”
“I love it. I loved it.” Lineas had to laugh. “It’s not practical for us. Mending and sewing must come first, whether on a run or at the royal city, where there are always stockings to darn until the fledges learn to do their own.”
Frin said, “You know that the fox banner belongs to the heir. But there’s so much political, ah, weight attached to it he has been warned since boyhood never to even mention it. However, I know it has always meant something to him. So if you were to embroider a small thing, like a robe purse.” As she spoke, Frin pulled out a folded piece of paper from inside her own robe pocket. “I know he would treasure it far beyond mere land, gold, or titles. If you agree, here is a sketch of the banner, from the archive.”
Lineas’s lips parted. “Thank you,” she whispered, taking the sketch with both hands.
Frin hugged her, and then followed Isa, both vanishing back to their cottage.
Blossom danced up, chattering for attention. Lineas slid the sketch inside her new robe of pure white trimmed with black and embroidered in gold with the family’s screaming eagle. A robe that she would never wear outside of Darchelde, for gold was a royal color.
She caught sight of Quill smiling a question her way. Remembering what Isa had said about him, she returned a bright smile, and so she allowed herself to be drawn back into the celebration.
The second wedding was held in the royal castle, as Hadand-Edli (Bunny) was married at last, to the popular hero Ganred (Rat) Noth, descended from the legendary Whipstick Noth.
Fragrant boughs of cedar and pine decorated both castles, one the main hall, the other the throne room. In both settings the best candles were brought out, casting a warm glow over smiling faces, the gilt edging on House robes, and the evergreen boughs. Hot spiced wine was not only poured for guests, but also into mugs carried to the wall sentries.
Another characteristic shared between the four was happiness. In Darchelde that found expression in ring vows.
Rat Noth and Bunny didn’t make ring vows. In her enthusiasm, Bunny had at first insisted, but Rat knew his soon-to-be wife had a roving eye. He preferred the thought that Bun would always welcome him with her sun-bright smile if she wasn’t tied to a vow the rest of the year, when he might be gone for months on duty. She’d agreed a little wistfully, and they decided to revisit the question in ten years.
Rat Noth stood along the wall in his new blue robe, trying to get used to the idea of being—at least legally—an Olavayir. He suspected he’d never get used to it, and it was likely whoever he commanded would also have trouble with it, but what it really meant was that any children he had would be Olavayirs.
Truth to be told, he wasn’t certain how he liked that idea, but he refused to let it interfere with how happy he was that he and Bunny were together at last.
As the drummers began another women’s dance, Connar joined him. “Take liberty this week, if you like,” Connar said with a smile. “We’ll ride out on the new year’s Firstday unless we’re under blizzard.”
Rat was the happiest he’d ever been in his life, but he still had a strong sense of duty. “We’ve got orders?”
Connar explained briefly. At the first mention of Rat’s stepbrothers, his face hardened, and there was a glimpse of the enemy-smashing captain instead of the awkward lovestruck fumbler who’d been underfoot for all these weeks on the second floor.
Connar’s tone warmed with approval as he finished, “We’ll split south of the royal city, me to make my inspection of East Garrison, and you to proceed down to Hesea, where I’ll meet you. We’ll ride south from there.”
Connar was in excellent spirits. Earlier that day, before they parted to bathe and dress for the wedding, Ranet had met him in the hallway and confessed that she had now missed her second monthly. “And I’ve got other signs that I recognize. Such as, I’m beginning to feel slightly queasy, but it usually goes right away as soon as I eat some bread crust.” She looked up at him in appeal, adding, “I don’t want to say anything to Noren or Bunny, since it seems I’m the only one, so far.”
The other signs were breast tenderness and a longing for extra sleep—and in telling him, she’d hoped for a quiet night in each other’s arms. Or even a quiet hour, if he had a restless night. Sex with Connar was wonderful, of course. Loving him was what she’d always wanted. But of late the sex every night had begun to feel...maybe a bit like habit? Each night he came to her room, they went at it at least once, then he always went away again, leaving her to fall into deep sleep. It was great—it was marvelous—but these past few nights, especially as the mild discomforts manifested, she wished he would just hold her. How she longed to sleep the night away with him in her arms!
That night he didn’t come at all.
She told herself that it made sense. His mind was already on the road, and all that had to be done to get there. And she knew that comparisons were evil. But...Rat Noth continued to sleep with Bunny all night.
Well, of course, she told herself as she dressed on the sixth day. That’s what newlyweds who’d chosen each other should do.
And so, the eight days of New Year’s Week passed. On Firstday of the new year, Connar and Rat were to ride out side by side, with Jethren commanding Connar’s new honor guard.
The company gathered in the courtyard, many in high spirits, some with a doubtful eye turned up toward the weather. The three princesses stood in a row next to Noddy and the king and queen, Noren serene, Bun disconsolate but resigned, Ranet with one hand pressed covertly against her flat stomach under her robe, the other holding to Iris’s little fingers, as she watched Connar’s shining blue-black tail of hair.
Her feelings swooped like a bird diving and soaring. She consciously reminded herself that she was in one of the most enviable positions in the kingdom, married to its most handsome and dashing prince, living among married relations she liked, her days filled with work she enjoyed. It would be wrong to even think a complaint, much less utter it.
But her eyes stung as Rat Noth gripped Bunny in both hands and gave her a long, desperate kiss. His men hooted and cheered, then he and Connar mounted up.
You could say that they were a love match instead of a betrothal. But standing next to Noren at Ranet’s other side was Noddy, his arm sl
ung around Noren’s shoulder as he blocked her from the bitter wind. Theirs was no love match, yet love had happened, even if it wasn’t a great heat on one side or the other.
Give Connar time, Ranet told herself as she watched Connar smile and lift his hand to them all. Then he closed that hand into a fist and the company thundered out the gates.
We are not quite done with the subject of weddings.
Far to the south, Lavais Nyidri, ignoring a fine concert of musicians brought at great expense from Sartor, was wishing that she’d succeeded in crowning the changing year with a wedding.
But (she reminded herself) she was a patient woman.
She schooled her expression to one of enjoyment as her gaze rested on the unprepossessing figure of Seonrei Landis—easily forty if not more, goggle-eyed, who no amount of gossamer silk robing could make look less like a ball of wool on legs, the mirror image of her father, Third Prince Nanlyu.
But frog-like as she was, that diamond-studded gold band bound round her brow attracted every eye because no one but the Sartoran royal family wore them.
Seonrei was a Sartoran princess, and one of her sons marrying her would make him a Sartoran prince.
As Lavais waited for the lugubrious ballad to end, she couldn’t help reflecting that Seonrei was even uglier than that cross-eyed princess up in Choreid Dhelerei, whose willowy frame at least looked very good on horseback. But a Marlovan barbarian princess smelling of horse sweat could not compare to a Sartoran princess in any useful way, in particular with regard to the prospect of power.
Whichever son Seonrei’s royal eye favored would get to wear gold around his brow, and everyone in Sartor’s court, from duchas to baras, would defer to him.
Demeos, of course, was more handsome than Ryu—but she thought complacently that the latter had a better sense of style. Sartorans valued style. Either way, Lavais could accomplish much once one of her sons married into the royal Landis family.
The piece ended, and everyone turned to Seonrei to discover what they were to think of it. Seonrei wondered if she was alone of all in that room was actually listening to the tight counterpoint and ravishing shifts in chords as the tiranthe finished the piece in a cascade of harmonic intricacy. All right, she wasn’t entirely alone. Bronze-skinned, handsome, languid Demeos also seemed to be enjoying the music.
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