by Ellyn, Court
Kieryn sank into his chair and started to bury his face behind a hand, but Kelyn gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him upright. Grace, if you must admit defeat, do it with grace. He could almost hear his brother’s admonition.
By the time the squires brought out the main course, the skins of the piglets crisp and elk haunches basted in red wine, Kieryn had recovered enough to ask his brother, “Did you see her?”
“See who?” Kelyn returned, stabbing at a slab of elk.
“Don’t tell me a female escaped your observation?”
“Of course not. But which one?”
“The Lady Rhoslyn.”
“The Duchess?”
“Harac’s not dead, is he?”
“Bedridden to hear her tell it. You should’ve been at the gatehouse.”
“Yes, Mother,” Kieryn bit. “So? What do you think?”
“Think of what?”
“Of what? Of her.”
Kelyn dropped his fork and answered only when Kieryn gave him undivided attention. “She’s trouble. Trouble for you, trouble for any man.”
“How can you say that?”
“I remember what she was like, even if you only remember being in love with her. She was good at playing games with people. That’s politics, and she’s a natural.”
“Takes one to know one, you mean?” Kieryn accused.
“Is that what you’d call a cliché?”
Kieryn sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and muttered, “Dragon spawn.”
Kelyn laughed. “If I’m dragon spawn, so are you.”
Kieryn expected the response and faked his own laugh. Reclining as he was, he could peer around the other chairs and see to the far end of the table. But all he could see of Rhoslyn were the golden plaits of her hair coiled artfully on the back of her head. He scooted his chair forward and reached across his brother for a wine flask. For an instant he caught a glimpse of her face, her lips parting with laughter. Erum of Brimlad told a lively tale, it seemed. Sitting back again, Kieryn thought her eyes shifted and met his.
“Oh, you’re smooth,” Kelyn lauded sardonically.
“Shut up, elven scum,” Kieryn snapped, then tipped up his goblet and gulped the wine. The richness of the Doreli red nearly gagged him, but it put a different kind of heat into his cheeks.
Sunlight glistened red and gold through three stained-glass windows and shifted slowly across blue slate tiles and the crowded trestle tables. Crystal glasses, silver plates, and highborns’ jewels shimmered in the afternoon light. Above the Hall’s double doors, the sunlight played upon the strings and silver inlay of a lap harp that was mounted to the wall. The harp was rumored to be of elven make, confiscated from its owner as a trophy during the Elf War. Da called the dusty relic a symbol of victory over that elusive, cowardly race, and wouldn’t suffer it to be removed. Kieryn recalled his conversation with Etivva and regretted the slur that had even now slipped off his tongue, easy as spit.
Kelyn’s elbow landed in Kieryn’s ribs. “You didn’t hear me, did you? I said, if you’re elven—”
“I know, I know,” Kieryn said. “Goddess, you’re predictable.”
Kelyn drove his boot heel into Kieryn’s toe. “Predict that? I also gave you fair word of warning. Rhoslyn will be a duchess one day—probably soon—and you’re just the son of the War Commander, a prestigious position but still no duke.”
Kieryn swung his heel into Kelyn’s shin. “Princess Rilyth deigned to marry a lord—”
“Boys!” hissed Alovi, digging her fingernails into Kelyn’s wrist. He winced, then lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. Grace.
Alovi jerked her hand away. “You can’t charm your way out of everything, Kelyn, my boy. Behave yourselves or, so help me, I’ll send you both to bed before the dancing begins.”
Leaning forward to hear his mother’s whisper, Kieryn caught Rhoslyn staring directly at him. She wore that wicked grin as if she could hear Alovi’s chastisement. Kieryn sank back into his chair and buried his nose in his goblet.
~~~~
Without giving dessert time to settle properly or the sweet wines to take effect, Keth ordered the under-stewards to move aside the trestle tables and sweep the pig bones from the floor. The musicians climbed to their loft and began tuning their instruments for the dances, and the highborns drifted from the Hall in small cliques, murmuring unhappily. Keth leaned close to the king’s ear and requested a private audience. Rhorek had made an effort to talk of small matters, even while he pretended that no one took note of him eating and drinking with his left hand alone. Keth could humor his king only so long.
As Keth stood from the high table, Alovi placed a firm hand upon his forearm. “That was rather abrupt, dearest. Try to be more careful or everyone will know something’s wrong.”
“Half of them already know,” Keth whispered, “and the other half will know soon enough.”
Kelyn leaned around his mother. “Know what, Da?”
“Doesn’t concern you, son.”
“But you said we’d all know—”
“You will know when I’m ready for you to know.” Of Alovi he requested, “Make sure your civilized sons don’t come to blows.”
“My sons?” She smirked dryly. “Figures.”
Keth appeased the murmuring masses by kissing Alovi atop her dark head, then escorted the king from the Great Hall.
The andyr-paneled walls of the War Commander’s study were ornamented with souvenirs of battle: tattered banners of noble houses stained with red-brown splotches; a battered Fieran shield, the white falcon on a green field; dented helms and dusty bits of horse harness; his father’s nicked broadsword with a chunk of onyx set into the pommel; Keth’s own sword, unadorned but for scars of war. For seventeen years, that sword had remained in its mounting above the mantelpiece, taken down for oiling and sharpening only. He owned a prettier, useless thing that he wore for show, at court and at Assemblies. It looked impressive with cross-hilt and pommel glittering with sapphires, but when Alovi had presented it to him as a gift for hanging up the real sword, she had warned him, “Don’t pick a fight with this one. It won’t last you long.”
Foolish youth that he had been, Keth had found it difficult to trade the scarred sword for the glittery one. He and Rhorek had both lost their fathers before the Fierans fled back across the Bryna, and vengeance was over too quickly. But in the years since, peace had spoiled Keth. He rarely rode farther south than Bramoran Royal to attend to the king’s business, or farther north than Mount Drenéleth, whose flanks were rife with snow elk. He sent out his garrison to track down highwaymen, and several years had passed since he had accompanied them. Had he lived closer to the Bryna, he might be on constant lookout for Fieran cattle raiders, and the real sword might’ve come in handy, but as Ilswythe was surrounded by miles of Aralorri meadow, the style of War Commander might’ve been no more than a term of respect he’d inherited from his father.
Keth couldn’t recall the last time he had felt this twinge in his belly, but it prompted his fist to grip the sapphire pommel of the glittery sword. He gestured Rhorek to a chair before the broad andyr desk and asked, “Drink?”
“Do you have a Doreli blush?” Rhorek asked, attempting to avoid Keth’s eye. The Black Falcon knew the study well, but he examined the war paraphernalia as if he were newly introduced to them.
“I can send Yorin for a bottle.”
“No, no, whatever’s on your sideboard there is fine.”
“Brandy?”
“Perfect.”
Keth filled the bottom of a crystal goblet and lowered it over Rhorek’s right hand. He took it with his left. “How are you feeling, sire?”
Rhorek swirled the brandy, but his left hand was less coordinated and nearly sloshed the brandy onto the rug. “Damn shoulder’s grown stiff on me,” he replied. “But the silverthorn works wonders for the pain. Master Odran should be commended. I might actually survive the week.” He chuckled into the goblet and s
ipped.
“I find that less than amusing, sire. You risk a storm with an arrow in your arm, and you joke about it?”
“Keth … ,” said Rhorek with a sigh. “One, you’re looming over me as even my father never did. Two, I already told you, my Guard searched the trees and found nothing.”
“At night. In the rain.” Keth folded his height into the chair behind the desk; regardless, he still looked down on the king. Rhorek was not a small man; Keth was exceptionally tall, as were his sons. “You’re still not going to tell me how this happened, are you?”
“What’s there to tell, Keth? I left my pavilion to take a piss in the trees. I returned to my pavilion with an arrow in my arm.”
“You went without your Guard. Jareg told me.”
“Even a king prefers to piss in private. Sometimes he actually gets to.”
“I can’t believe you’re making light of this.”
“You’ve enough to worry about this week without fretting over—”
“An attempt on your life.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Keth,” Rhorek pleaded.
Keth’s jaw knotted. “I pray your pardon, sire. It may be that some highwayman took a shot at a random man in the dark, thinking he would get lucky with whatever was in your purse. It may be that this was less than a chance incident. Every Aralorri knows where the Black Falcon goes this time of year and what road he takes. But it’s also possible, sire, that you brought an assassin with you.”
Rhorek laughed at the ceiling. “Make that announcement and we’ll have panic before the dances begin. Or, better, some of these highborns—who are less than fond of each other—may think this the perfect opportunity to accuse their neighbor of treason and we’ll have an out-and-out brawl.”
“I don’t intend to make an announcement,” Keth said.
“You’ve already doubled the watch. What more can you do?”
“Triple it.”
Rhorek swept the brandy glass in a salute of surrender. “Whatever you do, Keth, try to enjoy yourself this week. Or you’ll make me miserable, and a miserable king is as frightening as a pox.”
“I never enjoy myself the week of the Assembly, you know that. Yet you seem to ignore my moods just fine.”
“Yes, I shall ignore your foul temper, friend, as ever. And you will allow me a dance with your wife.”
“You could get one of your own, you know.”
“A wife? Humph, you snatched her up before I got the chance. Besides, the matter of wives is another argument entirely, and I’ll not discuss it.”
“Sure your arm can handle the dances?”
Rhorek smiled, his patience with his old friend tempered by long years of practice. “If I keep drinking your fine brandy, I won’t feel a blessed thing.”
~~~~
3
The sun set early so far north, even this late in spring, and once the splendor of colored light faded from the stained-glass panes, the musicians began to play. They were the best to be found in the Northwest, the harpist a fine troubadour with a silken tenor voice that cut the heart like a blade.
Though the Assembly was a vital, grave economic conference between the king and his ranking lords, no one could say that their host failed to provide an atmosphere for sowing good relations. The first day of the Assembly was for feasting, dancing, and laughing; the second day was reserved for competition and fair betting; the third, fourth, and fifth days were consumed by more serious matters, during which the lords brought forth their requests and grievances and awaited Rhorek’s judgment. Laughter and goodwill would, by then, be in short supply, for the lords would be looking out for their own interests.
Music of lutes, tabors, and pipes welcomed the highborns back the Great Hall. They had taken a few hours’ ease and changed into their newest and best. An opulent chandelier of Harenian crystal filled the Hall with golden light and made a display of highborns’ jewels that would’ve made the stars envious.
Kelyn had fussed over his twin, forcing him into a long-sleeved doublet of dark blue velvet. A chain of falcons were embroidered across the chest and shoulders with silver thread. Kelyn himself made a dramatic presence in black velvet with andyr leaves in thread-of-gold. He didn’t let Kieryn escape without taming his unruly lion’s mane first. “You’re making me into a fop,” Kieryn complained as Kelyn knotted a satin ribbon at his nape.
“I’m making you presentable. Here.” He set a vial of cologne on the vanity.
“I told you, I took a bath.”
Kelyn rolled his eyes. “Just wear it.”
“You’re trying to get me laid.”
Kelyn chuckled. “No, that’s too great a favor. You could never repay me for that one.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I don’t believe your story. You can’t tell me who she was because she doesn’t exist.”
“You know, I pity you,” Kieryn said, standing for final inspection. “You really think manhood must be proven by bragging. Besides, if anyone found out, she’d be in trouble. It’s not as if I could marry her either.”
“Hypocrite!”
“Well …”
Kelyn grinned and smote him in the shoulder. “You still got a long way to catch up.”
“That may not be a bad thing. The day you go to Master Odran with an itch in an uncomfortable place, you won’t have my sympathy.”
Kelyn granted Kieryn permission to descend.
Now, hiding among the highborns who mingled about the Hall, Kieryn indulged his curiosity. Rhoslyn floated across the slate floor in a number of arms, King Rhorek’s being the first. Rhorek seemed a bit flushed in the cheeks, but his arm seemed to work just fine. Garnets sparkled at Rhoslyn’s throat and in her hair, and her pale skin glistened with the heat of the room and the exertion of the dances. Instead of her state gown, she wore one of wine-red brocade, shot through with silver, and her lips and fingernails were dyed the same sumptuous shade.
“Why don’t you dance with her?” Leshan stood at Kieryn’s elbow. His foster-brother’s voice had a soft, shy note. His dark eyes were elusive as well; he watched the dancers rather than meet Kieryn’s startled gaze.
“With the Duchess? Absolutely not!” Rhoslyn swept past again, garnet mouth pinched, body less complying in young Lord Rorin’s arms. Three ridiculous peacock feathers waged atop his bubbly satin hat. Rhoslyn might appreciate rescuing, but … “You ask her.”
Kieryn won the challenge before he voiced it, however; Leshan was not a threat where Rhoslyn was concerned; if possible, he was more timid socially even than Kieryn was. Nervous, he tucked a lock of fair hair behind an ear and tossed out an excuse, “It wasn’t me she was trying to catch a glimpse of during the banquet. I remember how you always acted around her. You got all big-eyed and silent.”
“Did not.”
“Where she went, you went.” Leshan nudged him. “Go on.”
“Kelyn warned me she was trouble, and he’s probably right.”
“Only if things get serious, Kieryn. It’s a dance. So what?”
“Did I hear my name?” Kelyn peered over Leshan’s shoulder and offered them chilled mugs of mead.
Kieryn preferred his mead hot, but he drank it down nonetheless, while Leshan felt obliged to explain Kieryn’s dilemma.
“You’re gonna cower because of what I said?” asked Kelyn.
“I’m not cowering. I’m taking your advice for once.” With unintended ferocity, he added, “And keep your hands off her!”
Kelyn’s hands darted up between them. “You don’t have to worry about me, not with her. Duchesses are too high and mighty for my taste—as they should be for yours.”
“Laundry maids and grooms’ daughters aren’t too base for you?”
“Drop it, Kieryn.” Something savage peered from his brother’s eyes.
Leshan stepped back. “Hey, I never meant to start—”
“It’s nothing,” Kelyn insisted and swigged the mead.
Though Kelyn’s threat to h
is twin’s skin was genuine, Kieryn found some relief in it, for it signaled that he had finally dug beneath Kelyn’s carefree façade and found where he’d hidden his conscience.
Leshan found an excuse to escape. He took up his mother’s arm; Lady Andett, fair and laughing, followed him into the lines of dancers. Kieryn searched the Hall for a similar excuse: Lady Bysana, an older version of Andett, looked pale and unhappy, ill even, but then she never behaved as if she enjoyed life as her sister did; beside her, Princess Rilyth sat in delicate folds of periwinkle silk, looking bored while her husband honored Princess Mazél with a dance. Leaving Kelyn to sulk, Kieryn bowed to the princess. She raised a smile and allowed him to whisk her away into the spinning throng. When he swept her past Rhorek, the king laughed, and Kieryn raised his eyebrows, boasting of his prize. If Kelyn was a champion of charm, his brother was only a half-step behind.
“You have my thanks,” Rilyth said, the lines of her thirty-seven years deepening attractively around her hazel eyes. “Bysana was beginning to depress me. She’s still in love with my brother, I believe.”
“I’ve not heard this rumor.” Kieryn was not fond of rumors; Kelyn, however, would be thrilled to hear it.
Rilyth sighed. “No one speaks of it these days. But before you were born, it was quite the family scandal. I caught them together, you know, in the most compromising way. That was before her father packed her off to marry Athlem, of course. Still not sure he knows. Not that it matters now.”
Kieryn recalled his unforgiving remarks about Kelyn’s recent scandal and cringed.
“Did I step on your toe?” asked the princess.
He pressed a smile onto his face. “Nothing of the kind. You brought Drem this year, I see.” The princess’s sixteen-year-old son occupied a bench all by himself, looking pale and feverish. He tried to choke down a cough.
“His health improves, but the rain on the road was too much for him. He’ll be able to keep up with you and your fine brother soon. The Lady Rhoslyn favors him.”
Kieryn knew better than to tell a princess she was deluding herself. Drem looked the same as ever. Late to rise, early to bed, and ever trying not to cough, he watched most of the events from behind closed windows.