Something touched her right arm; she shook her head and jerked herself. The elderly gentleman was supporting her.
“Oh, pardon me,” Luneté whispered, horrified. Had she swooned? She tried to stand alone, and he insisted on holding her arm.
“Madame, I recommend you breathe slowly,” he said, and Luneté, ashamed of her weakness, did so, closing her eyes and concentrating. The swimming feeling left her head. Someone else was taking a vow. She listened; it was a child’s voice piping the words, some boy requesting the Emperor’s guardianship on the death of his father. Luneté licked her lips and opened her eyes, smiled at the kind gentleman in mourning gratefully.
“I was nervous,” she whispered. She shouldn’t have had Laudine lace her so tightly. The rich food here and the lack of exercise had had an immediate and annoying effect on Luneté, discovered as she tried on sleek-fashioned gowns that had fit perfectly in Lys. She would have to be mindful at meals or she’d end up as round as Princess Viola.
“Still in these ashen days, to some few it cometh hotly on,” said the gentleman cryptically. He patted her hand gently, nodded once, and looked back at the Court proceedings. Music was playing; a whisper ran through the room. Luneté heard someone whisper “Josquin,” and sure enough the Prince Heir’s expression of polite inattention had changed to something more alert. The betrothal, Luneté guessed.
Yes. The Master of Protocol was talking about Prince Josquin, his titles and radiantness and the strength of the Well in him and on and on.
“Blether,” muttered the old man contemptuously, very much under his breath.
“They do go on,” whispered Luneté as softly as she could.
“Words have no power in his mouth.”
Luneté wondered what that meant, but now the Master of Protocol had paused for breath. He went on to say that the Emperor (another tangle of titles and radiance and eternities) had decided to bestow upon his son (more improbable descriptions of Prince Josquin) the hand of his ward Lady Freia (who had not a single title, eminence, or radiance to her name) in union of the Well.
The corpulent man snorted to himself, not quite laughing.
“But,” Luneté murmured, puzzled, not aware she had spoken aloud.
Lady Freia was apparently supposed to present herself at the dais. Luneté sensed, rather than saw, some movement at the front of the room again; everyone was leaning, looking, and a few people gasped and shook their heads, whispering again; and all she could see was the Emperor, and he was smiling a small and unhumorous smile with no warmth of the Well’s blessing to it.
“I will not,” Luneté heard a woman say, low but intense enough to carry far. Luneté couldn’t see who had spoken, there at the foot of the dais.
Silence followed. The jostlings and whisperings were stilled, dread-struck.
A murmur from the Master of Protocol, who was visibly distressed—Luneté saw him come down the steps, pale-faced and indignant.
“I’m not your ward or anybody’s!” Lady Freia cried.
Luneté, who had thought Lady Freia was Prince Prospero’s daughter, glanced up at the man in mourning, who seemed to know things. He was watching with a Court-face that did not conceal anger.
“Carry on,” the Emperor said, icily, not smiling. Luneté could see him clearly; people had drawn back, away, and the Emperor’s face was narrow-eyed, looking down with anger—or was it contempt?—at Lady Freia, out of sight to Luneté. She could see Prince Josquin, though, and his expression was the same polite mask as before.
“You can only pretend I’m your ward, it’s all lies you made up for yourself!” Lady Freia retorted. “You cannot make something true just by saying it is so!”
The Court gasped.
The man in mourning chuckled. “From innocent lips,” he observed, but did not complete the proverb.
“What?” wondered Luneté.
“Madame,” the Emperor said, leaning forward, “you are a guest in our Palace—”
“A prisoner,” Lady Freia hissed back.
A storm of whispers rustled through the assembly now.
“—and your status and your family’s are precarious—”
A glove flew through the air to land at the Emperor’s feet; Luneté craned her neck to see it. The whispers were silent. Prince Gaston moved a step forward; the Emperor gestured slightly to him and he waited.
“I remind you, Avril, that I have promised to avenge any injury to my father, and I shall champion my lady sister as well.” It was Dewar who spoke, his voice melodious, even cheerful; Luneté couldn’t see him either—he and his sister stood across from the Princes, on the same side of the room as she did.
The man in mourning was smiling thin-lipped.
The Master of Protocol was fuming crimson-faced, his ceremony in tatters.
“Lord Dewar, your filial and fraternal sentiments are to be lauded,” the Emperor said, ignoring the glove, “though your enthusiasm is misplaced; no injury is offered your father or your sister.”
“Take care that none is,” Dewar said. “I warn you that in dispossessing my father of his daughter you have made a fiction which cannot be sustained by the truth of the Well, and which will annihilate you if you attempt to invoke it there. For example, by calling on the Well when you name her your ward.”
“The girl’s father,” the Emperor said coldly, “has legally dispossessed himself of her, and of all his goods and chattels, by treaty, and since she cannot exist in a vacuum—”
“I’m not your ward!” Lady Freia cried out. “Papa! Papa, say so!”
Luneté glimpsed her then: a blur of brown everyday gown, loose dark curls trailing down from a thick, unadorned hair-knot, and grim white face, springing a step toward Prince Prospero, restrained by Dewar who caught her arm and pulled her back.
“—in Landuc, the Crown stands, as it does for all minor orphans, in loco parentis, which is so established and precedented as to withstand, we imagine, even a sorcerer’s logic,” the Emperor concluded. “And since the Crown’s ward cannot speak for herself, the Crown will speak for her in her nonage. Do you challenge the Crown and therefore the Well, sorcerer?”
“No,” Dewar said. “You have Summoned the Well and its consequences on yourself. I remind you: I have an interest, and I will oppose any violence offered to either.”
“Dewar!” cried Lady Freia, sounding frantic. “Papa!”
“Then let the matter be closed,” the Emperor said, “with the understanding that, of course, no violence shall be offered the Crown’s ward, who is not competent to speak for herself. The Crown appoints Princess Evote to appear before us in her stead.”
Princess Evote came forward, in coppery silk satin and ivory lace, curtseying to the Emperor, and took a place where Luneté could not see her. There was a stir, and Lady Freia’s voice rose saying, “Let go of me, let me go—” and a flurry of movement and murmurs, and the Emperor said, “Her presence is not necessary,” and a door slammed.
The Court barely breathed as the ceremony of betrothal continued to its end, Prince Josquin’s voice cool and detached, Princess Evote’s formal and exactly enunciating every word on behalf of absent Lady Freia. The dowry was small: just four estates, of none of which Luneté had heard. It seemed very little for a Princess to have. Luneté listened, still astounded; how could anyone behave like that in Court? At her own betrothal to the Prince Heir? As the ceremony concluded with the Emperor’s blessing on the union, the Count of Punt interrupted her thoughts.
“Reckon she’ll stand in later, too?” He grinned. “Or maybe they’ll get a stableboy.”
Luneté stared at him, uncertain what he meant but shocked by the lewdness of his grin, and lifted her fan.
The Count of Punt leaned closer, though, and then leaned away with a faint sneer; the kindly gentleman in mourning turned and now looked at Punt in such a way as to repel his attention from Luneté.
The Emperor was blessing the Court and the Empire and Pheyarcet. Luneté knelt as everyone else
did, and music played, and the Emperor and Empress went out followed by all the Princes and Princesses, and Court was over. There would now be a procession into the ballroom, Luneté recalled, and she was unsure whether they would go in this order or whether she should go with Otto. She thanked the gentleman in mourning, cut the Count of Punt, and was stepping into the milling, sorting collection of nobles when a page tugged her sleeve.
“Your Ladyship is requested to attend the Empress,” he said.
“Oh!” Luneté exclaimed, “I—now?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship.” He turned and ducked into the crowd, and Luneté followed him to a side door where they passed through a press of lords and ladies. Some frowned at Luneté as the page announced her brightly to the footmen; others scowled in annoyance as the doors were opened and the Countess of Lys went past them with the Empress’s page into Her Majesty’s drawing-room.
“Most regrettable,” said Lord Gonzalo softly to Prince Prospero. They had met, not by accident, in a side-passage usually used by the butlers and other servants to provide service to the Coronation Hall; it was vacant, as the throne room would be used no more tonight. A single oil-lamp glowed over their heads. Prince Prospero gripped the long marble-topped counter that ran along one side of the passageway; he turned to Lord Gonzalo.
Prospero’s face was thunderous with rage. “I regret it indeed; I regret the day, the very hour I—but it is done, in Fortuna’s hands are we all for good and ill.”
“She spoke the truth, and perhaps Justice’s scales will sway.”
“The truth weighs nothing here, and Justice is a pandered bitch, to woo with lies and pinchbeck promises like any other whore. Did you mark how the villain smiled, and smiled—Dewar.”
“Father,” said Dewar, joining them.
Prospero looked steadily at him, past Gonzalo, and Dewar blushed.
“I wasn’t going to challenge him over that,” Dewar said, defensively. “I couldn’t.”
“Hast done what was possible. Lord Gonzalo, I think my son Dewar is yet unknown to you—I present him to you, heir to the hollowness that remains of all my works and deeds.”
Dewar bowed, pleased to be introduced. “Sir, I am glad to know your face at last,” he said, “your name has reached my ears before, kindly spoken. My father is not wholly done, while he still has such friends as Valgalant.”
“Alas, Valgalant is poor in everything, friendship not least,” said Gonzalo, bowing also, smiling at the handsome young man, seeing in him Prospero’s last best work. “Poets’ flights aside, one friend is small riches nowadays.”
“Do not undervalue so precious a jewel, sir,” Dewar said, “even for the sake of good manners. Valgalant’s friendship is double the value you state; for your daughter, Lady Miranda, is the loveliest setting ever to display friendship in this world.”
“Ah,” said Lord Gonzalo, “I had forgot—I knew it but today—you had met her.”
“In Chenay,” Dewar said, “we met and parted quickly, and I have hoped we might meet again with more leisure; we even promised one another such a meeting, at your house in fairer weather and better times. Yet I would hasten to meet her here, if she is here, and bend the intention for amity’s sake, and, if the lady were so kind, for the sake of a dance.”
Gonzalo sighed, looked away, and then looked back at Dewar’s eager smile. “My daughter hath broken faith with you, Lord Dewar, and shall not meet you now or later, here or anywhere. She is dead.”
Dewar halted in mid-breath to take this in. His mouth closed; he swallowed, confused by the bitter taste of the news; he looked at his father, whose grim face confirmed Lord Gonzalo’s dry words. Of course—Lord Gonzalo wore mourning; Dewar had forgotten that here, mourning clothes were ash-colored. “Sir, I am sorry. I—I did not know. I have heard nothing of her since then.” He glanced again at Prospero, gauging his words by the other’s expression. “May I ask, if it is not too painful a subject … what happened? For I … it is inconceivable to me that … after such a journey as she …” He halted himself; he could not easily frame elegant words around such a tender matter.
“I do not know how, or when, or where,” said Lord Gonzalo simply. “She was returned to me by Prince Gaston, and she resteth from her labors now lapped in stone, for death-fire is forbidden Valgalant by the Emperor’s order.”
“By Prince Gaston,” Dewar murmured. “And he would not tell you …”
“He hath said, with regret, that he cannot. I do believe he hath been commanded not to speak of it,” said Gonzalo.
Prospero, frowning, leaned against the long marble counter, folding his arms. “There’s but one commandeth Gaston.”
“The Emperor, then, ordered him to be silent,” Dewar said.
“ ’Tis apparently so, for I applied to him fervently for particulars, and have had only his courteous regrets that he cannot say,” Gonzalo said. “And his counsel, that I press not too deeply into the heat of the fire.” He shook his head. “Gentlemen, ’tis done, and ’tis the will of the Emperor that no more be known of it.”
“The will of the Emperor is not the Well of the realm,” said Dewar.
“You have your father’s tongue, sir,” said Gonzalo sadly. “Let us find some other news to occupy us, good friends.”
Dewar bit his lip, held back his words. “I beg your pardon, Lord Gonzalo. I did not intend to dwell on a subject that surely grieves you.” He bowed. “I too am grieved.”
“Well and all, Gonzalo,” Prospero said, straightening and coming forward, “shall you linger long round this unhealthy court?”
“Not so long, perhaps, as good courtesy would have me, though the Emperor did bid me attend.”
Prospero snorted.
“But since you are here, old friend, perhaps I shall tarry here, beyond my limits, and company you and you would.”
“I am on the Emperor’s sufferance,” said Prospero. “I may not leave nor stay save at his bidding; the spit-dogs have more liberty. Yet my son may go as he will.”
Dewar construed this as a prompt. “Sirs, I must leave you, for I wish to watch the spectacle of Court here; I have not seen it before, and it is of some interest to me.”
“Go, then, and see all,” Prospero said. “I am ill-suited for follies and footing.”
“Nor I,” said Lord Gonzalo. “ ’Tis but poor amusement to me, but a young gentleman will surely find diversion in it. I wish you well, Lord Dewar.”
“Until we meet again, Lord Gonzalo, I wish you better cheer.”
The Countess of Lys had spent hours poring over her father’s copy of The Boke of Elegant and Seemlie Decorum by a Noble-Man of the Court, and therefore she knew that she must wait at the door, be announced by a footman to a lady or another footman, be announced by that lady to another, and be announced by that lady … well, it apparently could go on awhile, but the Empress was not being very formal this evening, and so Luneté must wait only a few minutes while Her Majesty was informed that the Countess of Lys attended as commanded.
Luneté watched, since the book had not said not to; the Empress Glencora was at the other end of the long green-and-gold room, seated, and some of the other ladies (among whom were the Princesses) were seated and some standing; they had cups and glasses and tidbits of food, and were chattering and laughing, attentive when the Empress or the Princesses said anything. Her Radiance’s gown was unimaginably lovely—gold tissue over white satin—and she looked like a gilded porcelain sculpture of a person, all gold-and-cream, her diamond-crowned head tilted at just the right angle, her back straight. Luneté sighed to herself, feeling unbecomingly tall and ruddy-colored. The Empress was talking to two ladies, privily it seemed, and the others had drawn away. Her Majesty frowned a little and shook her head, then turned to the lady who bore word of Luneté’s arrival and nodded, and now a message was relayed to Luneté that she might approach.
The Noble-Man of the Court’s book had informed Luneté how to do this, too. She need not curtsey at the door, since the audience
was not private; she approached within eight steps, paused, waited respectfully for the Empress’s nod—which came at once, with a smile from the royal lips and “Come here, my dear, don’t be shy”—curtsey, forward four steps, curtsey—
“Here, take this footstool,” the Empress said, patting the one her own feet had been on an instant before, and Luneté blushed, fumbled her thanks, and sat down obediently. Without saying a word, the Empress now somehow dismissed the other ladies who hovered about; they all drifted off to the table where the wine and cakes were waiting.
The Empress looked closely at Luneté for a few seconds and nodded. “Well, my dear. I knew your mother very well; you resemble her wonderfully.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“But you’ve got Bors’s temper, I fear,” the Empress went on, “because Sithe would never have run off with anyone to get married, no matter how violently in love she thought she was.”
Luneté went crimson. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it.
“It is the privilege of an Empress to meddle now and then,” the Empress said, “and I am heartily sorry, Countess of Lys, that I did not meddle sooner. Perhaps I should have had you brought to Court and reared here; but all was sixes and sevens. Perhaps if you had been here when the Count died, you would have stayed here. But that is all gone by, and you have shown a remarkably good judgement by at least postponing marriage until after you came of age.”
Luneté’s embarrassment was nearly mortal. She had lowered her eyes and was looking at the pattern on the rug, little flowers and fire-blossoms.
“Do you love him?” the Empress asked, in a tone that demanded Luneté look up.
“Yes,” Luneté said, staring at the Empress.
“Love,” said the Empress, “is inconvenient. You are aware that the Emperor did not receive news of your marriage with joy.”
The Price of Blood and Honor Page 13