by Lori Martin
“I suppose we need such things in the winter, Rendell.” She still refused to turn. The dancing was beginning to break up. Her mother would be looking for her soon.
“May I sit with you a moment?”
“Yes.”
He pulled up a chair. They looked at each other.
“You shouldn’t be sitting with me,” Dalleena said.
“I know. I shouldn’t have walked with you the other evening, either.”
“You seem to break rules rather casually.”
“No, that’s not true. I’m usually what my brother calls an ‘upholder of values.’ ”
“Then he admires you.”
“I think he considers it my chief vice.”
Dalleena raised an eyebrow. “Well, in any case, we do seem to run into each other. What were you doing, standing here in the dark?”
“Just looking. At the crowd, and the singers, and ...”
“And?”
“I was watching you dance,” he blurted. She raised the other eyebrow. Rendell flushed but added quietly, “I beg your pardon, relas. I’ve had too much wine.”
Dalleena relaxed, not as offended as she should have been. “Let’s not begin with apologies again.”
A silence fell between them. Dalleena studied him. It’s a good face, she thought. Fine features. And steady eyes.
“I liked what you said that night. ‘I go where I am called.’ ”
“Because you understand it, relas. Most people wouldn’t. They’ve never really felt it. It’s a loss to them.”
“But a freedom for them, too, isn’t it?”
Rendell looked down reflectively at his hands. “I think you’re right, relas.”
Dalleena said, “You may call me by my name.”
He looked up quickly, questioningly. It was not a common mark of familiarity. “I’m very honored,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you, Dalleena-relas.”
She was opening her mouth to answer when time slowed down for her. In the eternity it took to draw in her breath, clouds had formed from the smoke of the candles. The sounds in the Hall took on an echoing, vibrating quality, no longer recognizable. Nialia was coming to her. The shifting clouds blocked Rendell’s face from her, and she did not feel him as he grabbed her by the shoulders. Her jaw went slack. As so often before, Dalleena heard voices chanting, and her soul opened, saying yes. The goddess came to her, beating at her heart. Yes, yes ...
Rendell was shaking her, too alarmed to realize that he was sinning again. “Relas? Relas! Answer me!” Her eyes were unfocused. She seemed deaf.
By Proseras! he thought. Is this how it is when they have a seeing? Is she going to faint again? Is there some way to help? He knew nothing of such things. He shook her again, and her hair fell over her shoulder. Tears were running down her face.
“Dalleena!” he shouted. He felt the strength come suddenly back into her arms, and looked past her. He had been too loud. The musicians had just stopped playing, and his voice had carried far down the walls.
“Rendell?” Dalleena asked weakly. She put her hand up and laid it on his cheek. At the touch, his eyes were riveted back on her. He was still holding her, frozen. Dalleena turned her head slowly. It seemed as if everyone in the Hall was staring at them. Near the councilors, the king looked angry.
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” she said loudly. He dropped his hands, and they both stood up. She forced a polite smile. “It was kind of you,” she continued in the same ringing voice.
“Why are they all staring?”
She hissed at him. “Why do you think? I may be dressed as a royal tonight, but everyone knows I wear a yellow robe! And do I have to remind you you’re an Armasii?” She stopped for breath. They were both panting, as if they had been running. For the benefit of the room she continued, “I shall retire now. If you will escort me?”
Rendell gaped. She took his arm by sheer force, determined to turn shame into defiance. They began to walk down the length of the Hall. Dalleena smiled and wished the people good even’.
“We have to take leave of the king,” she whispered.
They approached the royal couple and bowed together. As she straightened, she saw her father’s shocked look. The queen nodded to them, glancing sharply at Rendell. Behind Ayenna, Dalleena saw her cousin, dark hair hanging in his eyes, looking offended. Carden should be escorting her from the festival. She saw him look at his father, who had moved near the doors. But Sillus only shook his head, rubbing his beard thoughtfully and watching Rendell’s every move. They passed him on the way out. Dalleena brightly wished him good even’. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish.
As the huge doors were swung shut behind them, they heard the murmuring beginning. A guard in the passageway stared; Dalleena gave him a hard look and he hastily retreated. She broke from Rendell’s arm and leaned against the stone wall.
“I know you’re a Nialian. I’ve known it all along,” Rendell said. “And the relas. But I watched you –”
“Please,” she entreated.
He straightened his cloak, his face set. She could see determination come up in him, the determination of a man who always tries – perhaps too hard – to do the right thing.
“I suppose I won’t see you again, Dalleena-relas, at least not to speak to you. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you and for my inexcusable behavior – even if you don’t want apologies. May the gods protect you. Good even’.” He bowed, low and very stiff, and started to walk away.
“Good even’, Rendell.” He was almost out of hearing when she added, with her new knowledge, “But I will see you again.”
CHAPTER 5
“A girl in my counsella may become a Nialian next year. She’s been having some kind of seeings. What happens to them when they see things, Rendell?”
“I don’t know, Pillyn.” He was sitting with his younger sister in the bare garden behind the family’s home. The world was gray and overcast; the only color came from the scattered evergreens and the valiant pink of the relasii.
“It’s cold out here. Can’t we do this inside?”
She was sketching his profile with quick, rapid movements, studying him intensely and briefly, then applying fluid lines to the paper before her. At fifteen it was early to be sure of her talent, but her enthusiasm was certainly not in doubt: her sketches were hung on every available wall space in the house. Most of them were portraits of Rendell, to his embarrassment. Pillyn drew what she loved most.
“The light’s better outside. Try to give me a peaceful, contemplative look today.”
At this he had to stifle a grin. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, without turning his head. Pillyn had long ash-blond hair, a strand of which was caught in her small mouth. Her hazel eyes darted to his face, and back to the evolving portrait in her lap.
“Someone should draw you,” he said. “You’d look prettier on the walls than I do.”
She dimpled, but reverted to the earlier topic. “You ought to know about the seeings if the relas had one right in front of you. What’s she like? Is she pretty?”
Rendell felt irritated. It was the last thing he wished to discuss, even with her. “How do you know what happened?”
“But all the girls at my counsella know! The queen invited just about anyone who could walk to the festival. Every adult on this Hill was there, except for Father, and he would have gone if he hadn’t been sick. So the girls all heard from their parents. But I had to get it secondhand because you hardly told me a thing.”
“Get your hair out of your mouth. I’m sorry if your friends have nothing better to do than chatter about a little – ”
“Everyone said it was a scandal.”
“Now look, Pillyn –”
“Don’t turn your head. Hold still.”
“Never mind the sketch!” he shouted. Pillyn blinked; he rarely raised his voice to her.
“All right,” he said more quietly. “It’s just that I hate to find myself at the center of goss
ip.”
Pillyn let her sketch drop to the ground and took his hand in hers. “I didn’t mean to pester you with questions. I know you wouldn’t do anything wrong, I told the girls so.” Her eyes were filled with confidence in him, a look he was used to. He felt the familiar burden of her trust and dependency. The admiration – almost awe – that both Pillyn and their father had for him sometimes weighed heavily on his heart. It effectively prevented him from sharing any of his more human doubts and fears.
“You must have had a good reason to talk to the relas.”
“I did,” he said, and knew himself for a liar. Pillyn leaned forward impulsively and kissed him on the cheek.
The sound of snapping branches made both turn. A lean figure had scrambled over the stone wall of the garden and was climbing down a leafless tree. The puffed sleeve of his shirt caught on a twig, and he yanked at it, ripping it from wrist to elbow. With a curse, he jumped to the ground.
Pillyn sighed and picked up her sketch. Rendell watched, frowning, as the figure advanced toward them.
“Can you never walk in openly through the front door, Temhas?”
Their brother shrugged and sat down on the ground between them, getting dirt on his cloak.
“Where have you been all day?” Rendell demanded.
“Riding.”
“And the horse?”
“Tied up.” He motioned to the stone wall.
“I suppose it’s Blackshine, and you’ve ridden him hard all day, as usual. And now, of course, it would never occur to you to rub him down, or at least get the stable boy to do it.”
“He’ll be all right. I’ll take him in later.”
“You’ve already hurt one. Can’t you take better care of the others? Straws was a good mount until you ruined his mouth with your heavy hand, and almost lamed him into the bargain.”
Temhas smiled a little, his face calm. Only Rendell’s lifelong knowledge of his brother told him that Temhas was angry. It was there, in the faint color that had come up into his skin. Their faces were alike, showing the common blood, but different. Rendell’s light green eyes shone out from under brows a shade darker than his blond hair, and his mouth was firm. Temhas, though dark, had the same features somehow gone wrong. The delicate nose had become sharp and pointed, and the darker eyes seemed to dart hungrily under heavy brows. The cheeks were too broad and flat, the mouth set not with strength but bitterness. It was partially hidden under a dark mustache. Rendell, at twenty-six, was clean-shaven, but the eighteen-year-old Temhas sported his new manhood arrogantly.
“I suppose someday,” Temhas said, smiling, “you’ll stop telling me what to do.”
“You’ve torn your shirt,” Pillyn interposed before Rendell could answer.
Temhas ignored her. Still speaking with a tone of forced good humor he said, “I hear you had a wonderful time at the festival.”
Rendell was taken aback, as Temhas had intended.
“Of course, I wouldn’t really know, since Father wouldn’t let me go,” Temhas continued. “I’ve just become old enough, but he doesn’t trust me. After all, I tear my shirts and ruin horses. You never do anything wrong, do you? Mind you, it’s not forbidden to tear shirts, but –”
“But it is forbidden for an Armasii to talk to a Nialian,” Rendell cut in. “I understand you, Temhas. You’re about as subtle as an earthquake.” They glared at each other. “But if you think I’m going to explain or excuse my actions, to you of all people, you’d better think again. What I do is no concern of yours. Now go in and tell Father you’re home. He had one of his coughing attacks this morning, and you know that makes him irritable. He’s been worrying over where you might have gone.”
“He doesn’t worry about me,” Temhas said. “He just worries that I’m disgracing him in some way. All right, all right, I’ll go.”
After he left, Rendell said, “I didn’t realize Father had actually stopped him from going to the festival. He’s too hard on him. Temhas is of age now; he had a right to go. I could have kept an eye on him if he really needed it.”
Pillyn felt the old irritation. In the arguments between her brothers, her heart could not help siding with the one she most loved, but both she and Rendell knew that Temhas had a right to his bitterness. Since their mother’s death during Pillyn’s birth, the father had focused his loved and attention on only two of his children: Rendell, the elder son, the quick-witted boy who became a prestigious Armasii, and Pillyn, the only daughter, who so resembled his beloved wife. Temhas had always been a difficult boy, selfish and ambitious without being willing to work for anything: this was their father’s opinion, and the child had obligingly grown to fit the prophecy. For his sake, then, Pillyn permitted herself one sardonic comment.
“You could certainly have ‘kept an eye’ on him,” she said. “Look how well you looked after yourself.” She swept up her papers and pencils and headed into the house.
Rendell put his chin between his hands. He had agreed with the relas that the call to the gods could be a burden, but sometimes mortal duties were even heavier. He had been carrying the weight of his family for too long.
Somewhere in his deepest memories was a fleeting shadow that had been his mother, the mother of his infancy. The shock of her death and the sudden upheaval in the household had robbed him of what should have been the clearer remembrances of his boyhood. He remembered only his father’s grief, the sobbing little brother in the nursery, the newborn baby wailing. And after, struggling to be an adult, taken into the temple ... The discipline of the Armasii life had been a kind of escape, and the prestige of it had pleased his father.
From the house came the sound of chimes, for dinner. Rendell sighed and went in.
Later in the evening Pillyn sat by the roaring fire in her room. It was small, up high and back from the rest of the large family residence, with warm wood paneled over the stone walls. Her retreat was decorated in soft greens and yellows, and a long rope hung from the ceiling near the bed to call the servants. With her father ill, Rendell moody, and Temhas once again missing, the household business had fallen on her shoulders. Her maid-girl had brought a request from the kitchen: what would they be wishing for the week? Pillyn sat in her dressing gown, feet up, planning a menu.
From outside she heard light running steps crossing the grounds to the house. She smiled, picturing the side entrance to the kitchen yanked open, and the startled face of the cook. A stifled scream was heard from below. Now the running feet explored the first floor, tripping over the dogs and barging into the study. Rendell’s shout floated up to her, indistinguishable but amused. The feet clambered down the passage and finally up the huge front stairs. With her inner hearing, Pillyn imagined the indignant wrath of the cook to the kitchen girl: “Letting that child have full run of the house, and her room, when she might be in any state of undress!”
Pillyn’s door banged open and slammed shut again as an eight-year-old whirlwind flung himself into the room.
“Hey, Pillyn!” He dived into her lap, knocking over the footstool and scattering the household books.
“Baili,” she protested, more out of breath than he was. “I heard you all the way. Don’t you ever just walk?”
“Never.” Baili grinned. “It’s so slow, and I didn’t want Tutor to catch me. She wanted me to recite tonight, but I sneaked out after supper.”
Pillyn pushed a lock of the wavy brown hair from his sparkling eyes. “Your brother will stop you from coming here, one of these days. It seems you always pick here when you want to play truant.”
“He doesn’t care. Besides, I learn more from you. Tutor was surprised when she came that I knew most of the Book of the Gods. She said I was very young for it.”
“Get the footstool back, you bad thing, and pick that up. Why would she say such a silly thing? You were at least five. And it’s never too young to learn of the gods. Rendell was very little, Father says, when he first decided to be an Armasii.”
“Did you ever feel you shoul
d serve a god, Pillyn?” He had wriggled under the writing desk, chasing a sheet from the books.
“No, not really,” she said thoughtfully. Her silk dressing gown, deep cranberry and white, was caught in streaks of firelight as she resettled herself. “Few people are, I think, Bai. You have to be very single-minded and very strong.”
“Like Rendell.”
“Like Rendell,” she agreed. Having put things back to order, Baili climbed back into her lap, this time sedately. He snuggled to her. His elder brother, who had found himself unprepared to be the head of a household after the death of their father two years before, was vaguely affectionate to the boy in his care, but had little time for him. In the rambling house, whose grounds bordered on that of Pillyn’s family, Baili had only servants and a strict tutor for company. He had known the family all of his short life. Pillyn had found him one day by the brook that formed part of the boundary between the estates, crying, the sobs heaving in his small chest. He had been little more than a toddler, and she was not yet eleven. After some questioning, Pillyn found that his trouble was a mirror image of her own: “Nurse says I killed my mamma, by being born!” She had taken him into her arms, and won his baby loyalty. And as he had grown, in a house too empty for his affectionate heart, he had come to spend more and more time at the neighboring estate. A youngest child is happy to finally have someone else to look after; Pillyn had become his sister, friend, and amateur mother.
“Did Rendell go to the festival, like m’brother?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Were there any Mendales there?” he asked in excitement. “Were they dressed in black? Did they have poisoned arrows?”
“Bai!” She was shocked. “Who’s been telling you such things?”
“The old pie seller in the market. He was in the last war. He says the Mendales are afraid of the royals.”
“As far as I know, the Mendales are a tough people. I don’t think it’s fear. It’s just that the royals are very clever, and made peace with them a long time ago.”