If Grendine was cold, Tavard and his wife were acidic.
The Prince Heir had come to his sister’s wedding only reluctantly, and he complained bitterly from the moment he emerged from the Ways into Anguin’s private chambers. Princess Armandra was even more upset by the distressing mode of travel – she mistrusted wizards, now – and had begged off coming entirely due to her advanced pregnancy. Her Highness must have been pleased to learn that Tavard managed to bitch enough for both of them.
Princess Rardine handled the meeting with grace and poise I was unsure she possessed. She was wearing the colors of Alshar, blue and green, with a newly-wrought crown befitting her rank. Her gown was stunning, cut in an elegant Alshari style that showed off her waist and hips as scandalously as Remeran fashions did. She looked almost a wife to Anguin, already, a duchess-to-be and bride.
The formal greeting was awkward, thanks to the Royal Family’s diffidence. Anguin ignored it, and proceeded as cheerfully as if his aunt and uncle were just as excited about being his in-laws as he was theirs. He did his best to ignore the barely-disguised attitude of his fellow duke and future sovereign. It was an impressive demonstration of social adeptness.
The source of the Prince’s antagonism became clear at the banquet Anguin held in his liege’s honor in the grand hall of the palace that night. It was, in my estimation, even more elaborate and stately than the halls of Donrard’s Spire in Castabriel, and far more tastefully decorated than the halls of Rard’s new palace at Kaunis. The food was exquisite, the wine a delight, the entertainment the best the capital had to offer . . . and almost no one at the high table paid the slightest attention to it.
I was glad I had left Alya with Pentandra at the Tower Arcane for the evening. As a member of the Royal Court and one of Anguin’s vassals I was required to attend, but that was no reason to inflict these disagreeable people on my wife. She’d been through enough.
The event was “casual,” technically – that is, not the meeting of a king and vassal, but a gathering of family on the eve of an important occasion. That just meant that different protocols applied. The Royal Family and their ministers sat on the north side of the table, while Anguin’s court took up the south side. But as it was a filial occasion, the moment Landfather Amos finished the benediction and the first course was served not a diplomatic one, certain formalities were dispensed with.
Alas, so was all pretense at civility.
“Are you excited about the big day, Rardine?” King Rard asked his daughter, as the servants brought out bowls of soup, Alshari-style. “Most brides would be in a tither, this close to their wedding day. You seem as calm as a priestess.”
“My staff will ensure a ceremony and celebration fitting to the occasion,” Rardine replied, reasonably enough. But it was all the opening her mother needed.
“I’m not certain there is a celebration fitting to such an occasion,” the queen said, snidely.
“Perhaps, Aunt Grendine. I can think of no festival that would match my eager desire for this union. Yet we shall do our best with the wagon loads of flowers and wine being carted in from the coastlands. The Great Temple will be filled with blossoms to welcome the new duchess to her throne,” Anguin smiled. “Nearly a thousand barrels of excellent Bikavar red has been laid in for the reception. The Coastlords have really made an effort to provide their best for the festivities.”
“I’m certain it will prove an infamous revel,” Grendine riposted.
“Yes, I’ve heard it said that there hasn’t been such an urge to celebrate since your farewell party on the eve of your own wedding, Mother,” Rardine shot back, with practiced ease. “What a grand day that must have been . . .” she said, trailing off dreamily as she daintily sipped her soup. Rardine was in her element, here. She’d been trained by the best. And now she faced down her teacher in the deadly art of conversation with no hesitation and no hint of mercy.
“The happiest of my life, until I had children,” the Queen replied with an affected smile. “That first child is such a joy. A life-changing experience, blessed by the Goddess, herself. I wish you many such wonderful events in your life, my Daughter. May you experience every blessed hour of your sacred labor as if were a year of divine contemplation.”
“If she’s even blessed with children, after her terrible ordeal,” Prince Tavard added, sulkily. “Just what horrors did the goblins inflict on your body, my poor sister? Did they violate you terribly? Did they touch you?” he goaded. “Did they . . . do things to you?” he asked, with lurid expectation. He wasn’t quite drunk, save on his ire, but he was headed in that direction.
“They merely made me wait for my stalwart brother to rescue me . . . in vain,” Rardine replied, with icy sweetness. “They knew well enough to fear you. Why, when it was learned you had bravely invaded Maidenpool and would be arriving in the hinterlands anon, it was the talk of Olum Seheri for days!” she reported. “You will be visiting your lands in Enultramar while you’re here, won’t you, brother?”
“What shall you do with your new lands, Anguin?” Rard asked, attempting to intervene in the discussion before it got bloody. “Rardine’s dowry includes some delightful manors. Some of those estates trace their history back centuries. I recall visiting the Oirghort estates in my youth, while I was courting your aunt, here. Shall you be taking up residence there, yourself?”
“Nay, Uncle, I’ve far too much to occupy me in Falas, at the moment. I have assigned one of my loyal knights, Sir Rondal of Sevendor, as steward over Oirghort in reward for his excellent service to the duchy. He himself prepares to wed his own bride, and I felt such a pretty estate would should be enjoyed by some newlyweds, even if it was not us,” he said, smiling at Rardine affectionately.
“Just as you gave away two baronies you took in Gilmora,” Tavard sneered. “One wonders why you collect estates, if you are just going to give them away.”
“All of Alshar is my estate, Cousin,” Anguin replied, softly. “It takes much of my time to manage it. Especially in these troubled times. And those Gilmoran baronies were awarded, not taken,” he reminded his brother duke. “Rewarded for the service of saving my bride. Baron Astyral and Baron Gydion have also done me excellent service. They are deserving of such rewards. Do you not reward your own vassals for superior service?” he asked, lightly, his eyes flitting toward me.
Ouch. I know my exile by Tavard was a sore spot between the two boys, but I didn’t want to be in the middle of this dogfight.
“Ah, yes, your famous infiltration of whatever bandit’s fortress Rardine was being imprisoned in,” he said, a sneer growing larger on his face as he spoke. “I’m sure it was a daunting rescue,” he added with derision. Yes, that was his third cup of wine. In ten minutes.
“Bandits? I don’t really recall any. There were thousands of goblins there, it’s true,” Anguin reflected, thoughtfully. “And trolls. And undead of the worst kind imaginable. And dragons. And wyverns,” he ticked off on his fingers. “I think there were even some Iron Folk in our enemy’s service. Thousands were slain,” he recalled. “The mountain lake ran red with blood, and the Necromancer recoiled at the ferocity of the attack, that dreadful day. It would have enflamed your glory, Cousin. Weren’t you in combat as well, at the time? I believe you were conquering Maidenpool, about then.”
“A fierce and valiant campaign that was, I hear,” Rardine continued, eyeing her brother. “The depridations were unbearable,” she said, sarcastically. “My own seem tame in comparison. You suffered so long on that miserable waste, didn’t you, Tavard?”
“I was fighting to avenge you!” Tavard replied, through clenched teeth.
“You should have been fighting to rescue me!” Rardine shot back. “That’s what a good brother would have done with his army! Instead of using it to deprive Farise of its defenses and then lose it again after father sacrificed so much to take it! Why, I heard you ended up begging for Master Minalan’s help, when your supplies failed and you could not feed your men,” she taunt
ed.
Dear Briga, keep me out of this! I prayed.
“I believe it’s time for the cheese course,” Anguin observed, as his head servant appeared leading three others who bore great trays of bread and cheese. Sometimes the goddess listens, I reflected with a sigh. “Does anyone require more wine?”
“Me!” said Rardine, Grendine, Tavard, Rard and a half-dozen courtiers who had wisely kept silent, until then. I raised my own empty cup without comment. The cupbearers scattered to recharge the elegant silver goblets Anguin used. After a few grateful sips, it was time for the second awkward round of filial carnage.
“How soon do you think you will try for children, Rardine?” Grendine asked after a particularly generous swallow of the rich red Cormeeran vintage served with the cheese. “Traditionally, a bride waits a year after she’s wed before trying for children to enjoy the lusty blessings of home and hearth. Unless Trygg favors you sooner,” she added. I didn’t hear a direct insult implied, so it could have been a genuine curiosity of a mother for her daughter’s plans.
“We shall depend upon the grace of the goddess to grant her blessing in her own time,” Rardine said, evenly. “I hear my dear sister-in-law still struggles with her own most recent pregnancy. I do hope she’s feeling better than the last time I saw her,” she added. There was genuine sympathy in her words. Perhaps this was a truce, I hoped?
“She abides,” Tavard said, stiffly. His discomfort on the subject was clear, and no doubt well-guarded. Indeed, palace rumor had run that Princess Armandra sulked in Wilderhall, forlorn and despondent despite the blessing, so soon after losing her first child. By all accounts relations between the prince and princess were strained.
This was a sensitive subject with Tavard, I knew, and I prayed Rardine was wise enough to avoid goading her brother too harshly about it. Not on his fourth cup.
“Now that it is summer and she nears her term, she’s anxious to meet our new daughter. She will be the first princess born as such in Wilderhall,” he remarked, a trace of a smile on his lips.
“And the second born there, in all,” Rardine reminded him. “I do hope she enjoys the draughty old place. I find the palace here more than a fair trade for Wilderhall. Falas is gorgeous!” she declared. “Much prettier than the rustic old ruin I was born in.”
“You should have seen my palace in Vorone, my love,” Anguin chuckled, good naturedly. “It was a kindness that the dragon destroyed it!”
That earned a deadly look from Tavard, whose own palace had been destroyed by a dragon. Along with his son. I felt my breath catch.
“I feel this Alshari cheese disagrees with me,” he muttered. “Excuse me, my family. I think I will retire.” There was no mistaking the dark looks he shot his cousin as the servants led the prince to his quarters.
There was an awkward silence that fell over the table as we watched the somberly-clad duke stomp away in his curly-toed slippers. Rard cleared his throat.
“Is it time for the meat course?” he asked, ignoring his son’s retreat from the table. “As I threw up my lunch when I came through that magical portal, I find myself famished.”
It was a long, long dinner.
***
The next few days were filled with minor events held in preparation for the wedding: the signing of the dowry agreement, the ritual preparation of the bride, the maidens’ reception, the groom’s feast, the final fittings of the wedding costumes, the bridal luncheon . . . each occasion was an opportunity for Grendine and Rardine to trade jagged barbs, Tavard to sulk and Rard to sigh expressively. When Anguin entered the groom’s vigil in the Chapel of Duin, in honor of his ancestors, one of the final ceremonies before the wedding, we were all relieved.
Thankfully, Alya and I were able to avoid the worst of the celebrations. While we attended those we had to, whenever possible we took refuge with Pentandra in the Tower of Sorcery, and quietly entertained a string of Alshari magi who wanted a word or two with me.
Chief among them was Rondal, who looked every inch a Coastlord, now. Even his Wilderlands brogue was becoming clipped as he settled in amongst the southerners. He seemed quite happy with his new responsibilities – he was a gentleman of court and newly-appointed steward of Oirghort, a prized estate. He was even growing a bit of a beard, which was a little unusual. But it fit his new responsibilities. He stopped by for a cup of wine and a chat the day before he was to join Anguin on his vigil. Of course he wanted to talk about work.
“Anguin has me assisting Gatina and Rardine in spying on the rebels, but my real task is to find a way to fight the undead in the swamps. That’s where the Brotherhood’s secret stronghold was,” he reminded me, “and now the place is full of walking corpses. We’ve managed to keep them from spreading too quickly, but it’s a losing proposition. There are Nemovorti lurking in Caramas, making new undead and seeking as many Talented bodies as they can find.”
“So Pentandra has said. I find that troubling. Have you made any progress?” I asked, curious.
“I’ve led a few raids,” he admitted, “but they haven’t amounted to much. We’ve fallen back on quarantine and interdiction, particularly after the undead began springing up in the wake of the plague. The peasants are terrified. They’re crowding out of the region and becoming even more susceptible to the disease in the process.”
“Mavone saw much the same thing in the Westlands, and there the villages are few and far between,” I said, shaking my head. “Are they doing anything? Attacking in mass?”
“No, not at all,” my former apprentice said, shaking his head. “Mostly they just wander around and kill people. Then someone else comes behind and reanimates the bodies, if they are intact enough. Simple undead, of course. They only last a few months before they degrade, but that’s long enough to slaughter plenty of humans. I really don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll think of something,” I assured him, without any real idea of what that might be.
“What of Tyndal? I hear he’s sworn as your vassal, now, and taken lands,” he grinned. “How is that going?”
“Quite well, actually. He’s putting together a fair little domain, up in Callierd,” I informed him, pleased. “He recently recruited a few hundred Bovali to people his estates. He’s raising horses. And knights. He seems content with his mission,” I reflected.
“And Gareth? Pentandra made him Steward of Vanador, did she not?”
“He runs the place like he did the Magic Fair,” I nodded. “You and your lady should visit, some time. Perhaps after you are wed. Have you set a date?”
“As eager as Gatina is, she wants to wait until after Anguin is safely wed to Rardine, before we take our vows,” he said, thoughtfully. “The dowry and such has already been worked out – her parents were generous – and she’s thinking about this autumn. But in the meantime, I think she’s having more fun assisting the princess with establishing a covert network in Enultramar than planning our wedding. One untainted by the Family’s influence. They’ve made a lot of progress,” he said, proudly.
I shook my head in wonder. “I never would have thought Rardine would ever transfer her loyalty to anyone, much less Anguin. Not without some ulterior motive.”
“She has one: revenge,” Rondal explained. “Olum Seheri changed her, Master. She is embittered and grateful at the same time, but she desires some repayment for her family’s indifference to her captivity. If marrying her cousin and loving him faithfully will infuriate her mother and brother, she is happy to see the plot executed.”
“It sounds as if our lad has tamed her,” I remarked.
“Oh, she’s just as vicious as always, but she’s placed that viciousness in Anguin’s service,” Rondal considered. “That has done a lot toward establishing his government. No one knows how he gets his information, but several times he has headed off subversion or rebellion because of such information. He always seems to know what’s being whispered in the darkest corners of Enultramar. You can thank Rardine for that.”
“She’s started her own ‘Family?’ That doesn’t bother you?”
“It’s hardly that bloodthirsty,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “Indeed, she seems rather reluctant to use assassination except in extreme measures. She prefers blackmail, ruination, and coercion to killing. And she’s indulged in using magical means more than her mother ever did. More than one conspirator has disappeared, only to awaken on a ship, chained to an oar, unable to remember his name. One of Lady Pentandra’s spells,” he demurred, when I raised an eyebrow.
“I suppose that’s an improvement,” I approved, cautiously. “I was surprised at how great the support of the nobility was for her, this week. You think she will make a decent duchess?” I respected Rondal’s opinion on that sort of thing. He was far more intuitive about governance than his fellow.
“I think she was born to it,” Rondal decided. “Once she found a decent man who appreciated her wit, I think she was content to settle down and scheme on his behalf, alone. She has a keen insight on how to rule, even if her methods can be a little scary, sometimes. Once she gets that coronet on her brow, I think she’ll relax and enjoy her power and position and not misuse it. Too badly.”
Pentandra agreed, when I asked her about Rardine’s future role in the court.
“Oh, I thought I’d hate her, too, when I realized she really was coming to court to stay,” she admitted. “But she’s actually been quite sensible. Not always the easiest maid to get along with, but once she settled in, she’s been a real asset to the court. I’m actually looking forward to her becoming duchess. It will make a lot of things easier.”
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