Eiren smiled at Katrin and nodded.
“Not at all – I know she’s be anxious to speak with you,” she replied as Katrin rose and followed Chetigré into the parlor.
“Now then, a couple of lovely cups of tea.” Chetigré busied herself at the funny little stove that warmed the room. “And we’ll have that talk. Now, do you want plain tea or will you trust me to brew up a spiced tea that you’ll like?”
“Oh please, a spiced tea would be wonderful,” Katrin answered, looking around the parlor with delight. She’d had glimpses of the interior, but now she could take a good long look.
As Chetigré busied herself, Katrin moved about, looking at the luxurious fabrics and carefully placed ornaments. The furniture invited her to sit and be comfortable. She had come to love Samorsan interior styles, which ran to overstuffed sofas and chairs, rich colorful rugs and profligate use of what Menders called “shelf doodads”, little figurines and paintings.
Katrin’s future had always been a blank to her. The Queen’s permission was required for any venture she undertook. Menders had been flabbergasted when he received permission to take her abroad and out of Mordania for so long. With a mad Heiress to the Throne, the Queen had always made it clear that Katrin could be put in Aidelia’s place at any time.
Menders had let Katrin know about the various plots and conspiracies that swirled around the Queen. It was a never-ending torrent of desire for power, targeting a woman who, from all appearances, had never wanted to be Queen – as Katrin didn’t.
Katrin was free to travel, but always accompanied and guarded. She could study anything she wanted – but what to do with it? She would not be permitted to take employment and make use of her learning. It was taken for granted that her residence was The Shadows – which she shared, at this point, with nearly one hundred people. Sometimes her childhood desire to be alone, to be able to walk about without being watched or protected, came back a thousandfold, like a crashing wave.
Katrin couldn’t even imagine a home of her own, like other women, with a husband and children. She knew her friends dreamed about it, considered how they would furnish and decorate their domains, considered paint colors and curtain fabrics.
She liked this room. She liked the way Chetigré was independent and made her own world. Katrin knew her world was largely ordained for her by others and that any changes she could make were in the smallest details.
“Now, out of those dark thoughts!” Chetigré commanded, laying out teacups and saucers, then carrying over a teapot shaped like an adorable fat bird. “I don’t ask you in here to have you become quiet and sad.”
“I’m sorry,” Katrin answered. “I was just wondering if I’d ever furnish a home of my own.”
“A natural thought. Sit, my dear. We’ve been on our feet for hours, cooking away.” Chetigré seated herself and adjusted the cups and other tea things. “To have so much of your life assigned to you – having a crown isn’t what people think. It’s a burden, though usually riches come with it, but what use riches if you can’t make your own choices, eh?”
“When I was younger, I wanted to be a dancer, until I found out how small dancers had to be and what it did to their feet. I actually thought it was possible. Then I realized, I would never have been allowed to be a dancer, even if I’d been smaller than Borsen and born with wings on my ankles.” Katrin gratefully accepted the cup of tea Chetigré prepared for her and sipped. It was tantalizing, sweet and creamy, strong dark tea laced with so many spices she couldn’t sort them out.
“Good, eh? I thought that would suit you. I find the idea of royalty very disturbing, in truth,” Chetigré mused. “We have a King here, of course, but we have a republic as well. Our King works from an office, not a palace and he helps with law making and policy. He is quite a funny man and likes my restaurant. His sons – some of them have asked to be left out of the Line of Succession, wanting to live a private life, and there has been no problem with that. I fear your country is nowhere near such a solution.”
“No. That’s a certainty,” Katrin replied, setting her cup down.
“Now then, enough of what we cannot change,” Chetigré announced. “You wish to know what I know of your mother.”
“And my father. I have met my mother once and only answered her questions. My father died before I was born.”
“Yes, poor man. They were a beautiful couple. Your mother was one of the most beautiful women I ever saw, Katrin. She was tall, like you, but fuller bodied, though she was some years older than you are now when I knew her. Her hair was a natural red-gold, not like that foolish wig she wears as Queen. Men drank toasts to her eyes. Like the clearest lagoon you’ve ever seen, a true aquamarine color.” Chetigré sipped her tea for a moment.
“Your father – well. Many hearts fluttered over that man, I can tell you! You have his coloring, the intense blue eyes, the golden hair. You also have his height and length of limb, his way of moving and you have his kindness. It shows in your face as it showed in his.
“Your parents together were more as a couple than either of them standing alone. To the experienced, it was clear that your mother had been trodden down and harmed badly, but Bernhard Markha lifted her up, gave her a foundation from which she could be strong. Their love was a force that would not be denied.”
“Was this before my sister Aidelia was born?” Katrin asked in confusion. “Hemmett said that my grandmother, Morghenna the Terrible, was crippled by a stroke for ten years – a ‘living corpse’ is what he said she was like.”
“No, my dear. Morghenna the Terrible had two strokes – she made a reasonable recovery after the first, though she was no longer the powerful ruler she had been.
“Your sister was born four years after Morghenna the Terrible’s first stroke. From what was told me, your mother objected to the way the baby was going to be raised, with the toughening. She wanted to hold and love the baby and the head nurse, Madame Holz, would not allow it. Your mother fought against this, but she was so trained to be obedient that she couldn’t fight for long. Even though the toughening had rendered your mother weak, Morghenna the Terrible was determined that your sister would be made strong by it. She ordered your mother away to travel.”
Katrin was sitting upright, her cup in her hand.
“My mother tried to oppose Morghenna the Terrible?” she gasped.
Chetigré nodded gravely.
“She did, but she couldn’t hold fast,” she answered. “She was ordered away to do the Middle Continent Tour, to keep her from holding and loving the baby. There was no choice. She would have been sent by force or even executed if she persisted, since there was another Heiress available.”
“Sometimes I hate my country,” Katrin whispered. The cruelty of what Chetigré had just told her made her breath come short.
“It is due for change, that is a certainty,” Chetigré agreed. “She and your father fell in love during that tour. She had a freedom while traveling that she’d never had. I think, with enough time with your father’s support, she would have become a stronger woman.”
“You must have known them very well.”
“I did.” Chetigré set her cup down and refilled it. She rose and went to a cupboard, coming back with a covered plate that was full of tiny cakes, each decorated with candied flowers.
“I’m sure your father, my old friend Menders, has told you he has a network of people all over the world, who provide him with information,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“Yes, I know this – though I had no idea just how extensive it was until we started to travel,” Katrin answered.
“Well, I am a part. I don’t communicate directly to Menders, but through others, for safety. So do many, many people. Before Menders, to Thoren Bartan, the Court Assassin. Ah, I see you know him.”
Katrin nodded. “He and his wife visit us and at the Palace, he helped us.”
“At the time your parents were together, your father was forming a similar network. He
wanted things to change in Mordania. He saw what toughening did to your mother and he saw how The Terrible struggled to retain her control as the Queen. The Council was always plotting, always seeking to take away her power. He knew Mordania had to change and he was working from here to make that possible. I provided your parents with a safe place to communicate with other parts of his network, so the secret was kept.”
The idea of her parents as rebels, working to change the backward elements of Mordania set Katrin’s imagination on fire.
“Then your grandmother had a second stroke. Your mother was ordered back to Mordania. I had no more direct contact with them. Then three years later I had word that your father had been in an accident and died. Your mother was carrying you then. I think the rest you know.”
“As much as anyone knows about the Queen,” Katrin sighed. “She doesn’t stay in contact with me. I’ve been with Menders ever since the night I was born and Eiren has been there since we arrived at The Shadows the next day. They are my parents.”
“They are indeed. Remember, though – there are those people who lust after power who will do anything to acquire it.”
“Yes. We had a terrible man trying to kill us all two years ago,” Katrin said softly. “There have been others as well, since I was tiny.”
“You have a friend here, Katrin,” Chetigré said, reaching out and taking her hand. “Samorsa is a big place. Remember that, if a bolt-hole is ever needed.”
She sat up abruptly.
“Now, we will leave these dark things behind. Remember, your parents truly loved one another and wanted to make a better world. It was not always sadness and despair.”
“No. No, it wasn’t and I’m glad you told me,” Katrin replied, setting her cup down so Chetigré could pour more of the aromatic tea. “I’ve wondered so often.”
“Have a cake.”
“I’ve had three!”
“Do you want another?”
“Well – yes, I do.”
“So take! And you may have some to take to that dreadful Kaymar, who is so badly behaved!”
“I think you like Kaymar, Chetigré,” Katrin laughed.
“Pah! He is a dreadful pest,” Chetigré pronounced, taking out a prettily decorated box and packing several of the little cakes away in it for Katrin to take back to Kaymar.
Parita, Samorsa
21
Coil of Memory
“W
ell, young lady, you’re rambling around town on your own.”
Varnia started and turned toward Ifor Trantz, who was smiling down at her.
“I didn’t want to see the bullfights,” she replied awkwardly. She’d begged off an excursion to the arena when asked by Hemmett and Borsen. Katrin and Kaymar had gone along, but Varnia hated the dust, noise and crowds. She had waited until the bullfight party departed and then dressed in her best, slipping out of the hotel to have a solitary look around around Parita.
“Nor me,” Ifor replied. “The bulls aren’t harmed and it isn’t often that a fighter is but it strikes me as a waste of time and effort, to say nothing of annoying and frightening an animal. So, would you care to join me for a ramble around beautiful Parita?”
Varnia tried to shield her expression, but could tell that she’d suddenly looked wary. Ifor seemed so courtly. She was fairly certain he was entirely nancy, unlike Kaymar who was attracted to both men and women and exuded sensuality – but could she be sure?
He’d caught that flash of unease and gave her a smile. His homely face lit up.
“You could not be safer with me, dear,” he said gently. “I have no motive other than spending a little time with someone who would probably appreciate some of the same things I do.”
He offered her his arm. She smiled suddenly and took it. Ifor squired her away, down a twisty little street full of shops.
They drifted along for some time without speaking, taking in what was displayed in the shop windows or looking at a peculiar or interesting building. Varnia’s favorites were the ones Menders had told her were made of bricks and then plastered over with wet clay that was hardened by hot fires burned around the structure.
The Samorsans called this building style ceramo. It made corners into smooth curves and to Varnia’s mind, the ceramo buildings looked like they had formed naturally from the ground, like enormous mushrooms that people lived in. They were always painted in cheerful and sometimes clashing colors that always seemed just right in the intense sunlight.
“Ah, now what I was wanting to see,” Ifor announced suddenly. “Just a bit further along this way.”
Varnia could hear splashing water and smiled to herself. So far Ifor’s world tour had involved seeing famous fountains in many lands. Eiren had told her that Ifor an expert on all forms of artistic expression and had written several books about art under a pen name. Varnia suspected he was gathering notes for another one.
Suddenly they walked into a Samorsan road-courtyard, an open space around a fountain. They were fixtures in every Samorsan neighborhood, but this fountain was exquisite. It was made in a style similar to the ceramo buildings that ringed the courtyard, but of a lighter and finer clay. It soared to over fifteen feet, graceful curves sculpted like vines around a central trunk. Water poured from innumerable spouts, splashing into reservoirs, throwing up a fine mist that softened the dry air and glittered with reflected light.
“See, when they attempted this fountain, they had a lot of difficulty,” Ifor said, pointing upward to the central trunk of the structure. “They built it and then fired it whole with a huge bonfire. This was not a good idea – but then, no-one had attempted such a thing before. It would have been better to fire it in separate pieces, assemble them and fire it again.
“The entire fountain crumbled on the first firing, but the builders didn’t gave up. You can see cracks and fissures that are repaired, but they did the repairs in such a way that they became part of the design. They patched it together, sculpted clay around the breaks and fired it again and again until it all held together. They ended up with this wonder – graceful, unique and incredibly strong.”
It is a wonder, Varnia thought, looking at the stunning structure. What she liked most was that rather than simply decorating a space, this fountain was being used. People were coming for water, to take a drink, to rinse their hands. Children, hot and sweaty from playing, wet their faces or splashed each other. Horses drank from a trough fed by the fountain. Varnia liked useful things as well as beautiful things. This fountain hidden in a working class Samorsan neighborhood was both.
A little girl playfully flicked water at Ifor when he smiled at her and asked the name of her dolly, which she was giving a bath. He laughed and began singing back at her. Varnia’s ear had become well developed during their time in Surelia. Though she didn’t know much Samorsan, it was similar to Surelian and she was able to translate enough to know it was a comical children’s song about a man who sold his cow to buy a calf, then went on to make a number of other poor trades until he ended up with a fly that proceeded to die.
She sat down on a nearby bench, amused, as Ifor entertained a growing crowd of children with his powerful bass voice. The bolder ones were singing the song with him and all were laughing as he mimed and gestured, telling the sad tale of the gormless bargain maker.
A woman sat beside Varnia, balancing a basket of wet laundry on her lap and sighing with relief. She smiled and then watched Ifor with appreciation.
“Ello mariano vos?” she asked. Varnia scrambled over the Samorsan words and realized she was being asked if Ifor was her husband. She smiled and shook her head.
“Samorsona ve ne puarte, seronara,” she replied, using her limited vocabulary to let the woman know that she truly didn’t speak Samorsan. Her companion nodded and tried Surelian.
Varnia could bumble along in that language. She tried, but the woman went too fast, then switched suddenly to broken Mordanian. Varnia remembered how Menders had told her that Samorsa, because of its p
articular position on the continent it shared with Surelia, Fambré and Barambos, was a place where many languages were spoken and understood.
“So Miss is Mordanian!” the woman cried in surprise. “You look Samorsan!”
Varnia nodded shyly. She had been told that many times since they’d come to Samorsa because of her black hair and gray eyes – and her hawkish nose.
“So this singing gentleman, he is your husband?”
“No, only a friend,” Varnia replied stiffly.
The woman shook her head and laughed.
“Best catch him, he would be a good one,” she advised, sorting her wet laundry for a moment. “See how kind, how good to the little ones. Don’t be long, someone will take him!” She rose, nodded politely and sauntered away with her basket balanced on her hip.
Varnia breathed a little sigh of relief. So many people in these foreign countries seemed determined to marry her off. One Surelian waiter had pestered her about marrying Hemmett until she’d been ready to cry and Hemmett paid him to go away. Even if she was interested in marriage, Ifor would be the last place she’d look, considering he’d been bonded to Kaymar for years and was utterly devoted to him.
She rose to cover her discomfiture and strolled over to the shops that ringed the fountain courtyard. Vendors spoke cheerfully but let her browse without pestering her. She finally stopped outside a hairdressing salon, intrigued by the hairstyle pictures in the window.
Varnia’s hair was a trial to her. It had never been cut, as was the Mordanian custom. It nearly reached her feet, as Katrin’s did. But Katrin’s hair was something out of a fairytale – golden, curling and easy to control. Brushing made it gleam. When pinned up, it stayed in place until Katrin took it down.
Varnia’s hair was midnight black, wavy, slippery in texture and almost impossible to tame. Once she was grown she’d always coiled and pinned it back severely, just to keep it out of her way. Then she had learned some looser hairstyles, but when wearing it so, it often got away from her. Worse, sometimes no matter what she did, she couldn’t achieve a groomed appearance and had to run to Eiren or Katrin for help. Just lately, while riding on Borsen’s little donkey, her hair decided to tumble down and got ensnared around the poor animal’s legs. Only quick action on Borsen’s part had kept the donkey from kicking in reflex and tearing Varnia’s hair out by the roots.
Love and Sacrifice: Book Two of the Prophecy Series Page 22