It was Nee’s turn to shudder. “Life! I’d rather do almost anything than that—”
A “Ho!” outside the door interrupted her.
Bran carelessly flung the tapestry aside and sauntered in. “There y’are, Nee. Come out on the balcony with me? It’s actually nice out, and we’ve got the moon up.” He extended his hand.
Nee sent a glance at me as she slid her hand into his. “Want to come?”
I looked at those clasped hands, then away. “No, thanks,” I said airily. “I think I’ll practice my fan, then read myself to sleep. Good night.”
They went out, Bran’s hand sliding round her waist. The tapestry dropped into place on Nee’s soft laugh.
I moved to my window to gaze out at the stars.
It was a mystery to me how Bran and Nimiar enjoyed looking at each other. Touching each other. Even the practical Oria—the friend once who told me that things were more interesting than people—had freely admitted to liking flirting.
How does that happen? I moved away from the window, knowing that it would never happen to me. Did I want it to? This question made me feel restless, as if the entire castle was too confining.
In a short time I got rid of my civilized clothing and soft shoes. I pulled on my worn, patched tunic, trousers, and tough old mocs from the trunk in the corner, slipped out of my room and down the stair without anyone seeing me, and before the moon had traveled the space of a hand across the sky, I was riding along the silver-lit trails with the wind in my hair and the distant harps of the Hill Folk singing forlornly on the mountaintops.
CHAPTER FIVE
The buds were starting to show green on the trees when Bran interrupted some chatter about local wildflowers, and shifted his glance from Nee to me. “We ought to start to Remalna-city, Mel. Danric has work to do, and Nee hasn’t seen her people for all these weeks. And as for me—” He made a face. “I’m glad when we have a clear enough day where the construction can go on, but life! The noise and mess make me feel like a cat in a dog kennel.”
“Set the date,” I said, which I think surprised them all.
But I had already realized that there was little to keep me in Tlanth. Our county was on its way to recovery. By this time the next year we would even have paved roads between the villages and down to the lowlands—everywhere but beyond that invisible line that everyone in Tlanth knew was the border of the Hill Folk’s territory.
Nee and Bran began talking about what delights awaited us in the capital. My last order of books had come in three weeks before, and I hadn’t ordered more, for Nee and Bran both assured me that the library at Athanarel was fabulous—fantastic—full. To all their other words I smiled and nodded, inwardly thinking about the Marquise of Merindar’s letter and my own reason for going to Court.
Shevraeth didn’t say anything, or if he did, I didn’t hear it, for I avoided him whenever possible.
oOo
The day before our departure was mild and clear with only an occasional white cloud drifting softly overhead. Bran swooped down on us after breakfast and carried Nee off for a day alone.
So during the afternoon I retreated to the library and curled up in the window seat with a book on my lap.
For once the beautifully drawn words refused to make sense. I gazed out at the rose garden, which would be blooming well after I was gone. “My last afternoon of peace,” I muttered with my forehead against the glass, then I snorted. It sounded fine and poetic—but I knew that as long as I thought that way, the peace had already ended.
And what was I afraid of?
I had learned enough of the rules of etiquette to get by, and I was now the proud possessor of what I once would have thought the wardrobe of a queen. And I wouldn’t be alone, for my brother and my sister-to-be would accompany me.
As for the Marquise of Merindar’s letter, perhaps its arrival and Shevraeth’s on the very same day were coincidences after all. No one had said anything to me about it. And if I were reasonably careful at Court, I could satisfy my quest.…
Except, what then?
I was still brooding over this question when I heard a polite tap outside the tapestry. On my instinctive “Enter,” there followed the rap of a boot heel on the new tile floor, then another.
A weird feeling tightened the back of my neck. I twisted around to face the Marquis of Shevraeth, who stood just inside the room. He raised his hands and said, “I am unarmed.”
I realized I was glaring. “I hate people creeping up behind me,” I muttered.
He glanced at the twenty paces or so of floor between us, then up at the shelves, the map, the new books. Was he comparing this library with the famed Athanarel one—or the equally (no doubt!) impressive one at his home in Renselaeus? I folded my arms and waited for either satire or condescension.
When he spoke, the subject took me by surprise. “You said once that your father burned the Astiar library. Did you ever find out why?”
“It was the night we found out that my mother had been killed,” I said reluctantly. The old grief oppressed me, and I fought to keep my voice even. “By the order of Galdran Merindar.”
“Do you know why he ordered her murder?” he asked over his shoulder, as he went on perusing the books.
I shook my head. “No. There’s no way to find out that I can think of. Even if we discovered those who carried out the deed, they might not know the real reasons.” I added sourly, “Well do I remember how Galdran issued lies to cover his misdeeds: Last year, when he commenced the attack against us, he dared to say that it was we who were breaking the Covenant!” I couldn’t help adding somewhat accusingly, “Did you believe that? Not later, but when the war first started.”
“No.” I couldn’t see his face. Only his back, and the long pale hair, and his lightly clasped hands were in view as he surveyed my shelves.
This was the first time the two of us had conversed alone, for I had been careful to avoid such meetings during his visit. Not wanting to prolong it, I still felt compelled to amplify.
I said, “My mother was the last of the royal Calahanras family. Galdran must have thought her a threat, even though she retired from Court life when she adopted into the Astiar family.”
Shevraeth was walking along the shelves, his hands still behind his back. “Yet Galdran had taken no action against your mother previously.”
“No. But she’d never left Tlanth before, not since her marriage. She was on her way to Remalna-city. We only know that it was his own household guards, disguised as brigands, that did the job, because they didn’t quite kill the stable girl who was riding on the luggage coach and she recognized the horses as Merindar horses.” I tightened my grip on my elbows. “You don’t believe it?”
Again he glanced at me. “Do you know your mother’s errand in the capital?” His voice was calm, quiet, always with that faint drawl as if he chose his words with care.
My voice sounded too loud, and much too combative, to my ears. Of course that made my face go crimson with heat. “Visiting.”
This effectively ended the subject, and I waited for him to leave.
He turned around and studied me reflectively. The length of the room still lay between us. “I had hoped,” he said, “that you would honor me with a few moments’ further discourse.”
“About what?” I demanded.
“I came here at your brother’s invitation.” He spoke in a conversational tone, as though I’d been pleasant and encouraging. “My reasons for accepting were partly because I wanted an interlude of relative tranquility, and partly for diplomatic reasons.”
“Yes, Nimiar told me about your wanting to present a solid front with the infamous Astiars. I understand, and I said I’d go along.”
“Please permit me to express my profound gratitude.” He bowed gracefully.
I eyed him askance, looking for any hint of mockery. All I sensed was humor as he added, “I feel obliged to point out that…an obvious constraint…every time we are in one another’s com
pany will not go unnoticed.”
“I promise you I’ve no intention of trying again for a crown.”
“Thank you. What concerns me are the individuals who seem to wish to taste the ambrosia of power—”
“—without the bitter herb of responsibility. I read that one, too,” I said, grinning despite myself.
He smiled faintly in response, and said, “These individuals might seek you out—”
My humor vanished. I realized then that he knew about the letter. He had to. Coincidence his arrival might be, but this conversation on our last day in Tlanth was not. It could only mean that he’d had someone up in our mountains spying on me, for how else could he know?
My temper flared bright as a summer fire. “So you think I’m stupid enough to lend myself to the schemes of troublemakers for the sake of making trouble, is that what you think?” I demanded.
“I don’t believe you’d swallow their blandishments, but you’ll still be approached if you seem even passively my enemy. There are those who will exert themselves to inspire you to a more active role.”
I struggled to get control of my emotions. “I know,” I said stiffly. “I don’t want to be involved in any more fighting. All I want is the good of Remalna. Bran and I promised Papa when he died.” Even if my brother has forgotten, I almost added, but I knew it wasn’t true. In Bran’s view, he had kept his promise. Galdran was gone, and Tlanth was enjoying peace and prosperity. Bran had never pretended he wanted to get involved in the affairs of kings beyond that.
As if his thoughts had paralleled mine, Shevraeth said, “And do you agree that your brother—estimable as he is—would not have made a successful replacement for Galdran Merindar?”
The parallel was unsettling. I said with less concealed hostility, “What’s your point?”
“No…point.” His tone made the word curiously ambiguous. “Only a question.”
He paused, and I realized he was waiting for my answer to his. “Yes,” I said. “Bran would make a terrible king. So what’s your next question?”
“Can you tell me,” he said slowly, “why you seem still to harbor your original resentment against me?”
Several images—spies, lying courtiers—flowed into my mind, to be instantly dismissed. I had no proof of any of it. So I gazed out the window as I struggled for an answer. After the silence grew protracted, I peeked to see if he was still there. He hadn’t moved. His attitude was not impatient, and his gaze was on my hands, which were tightly laced in my lap. His expression was again reflective.
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “I don’t know.”
There was a pause, then he said, “I appreciate your honesty.” He gave me a polite bow, a brief smile, and left.
oOo
That night I retreated for the last time to the mountain peaks behind the castle and roamed along moonlit paths in the cool end-of-winter air. In the distance I heard the harpwinds, but this time I saw no one. The harps thrummed their weird threnodies, and from peak to peak reed pipes sounded, clear as winged creatures riding on the air, until the night was filled with the songs of approaching spring, and life, and freedom.
The music quieted my restlessness and buoyed me up with joy. I climbed the white stone cliff between our mountain and the higher Elios and peered down at the castle, silhouetted silvery against the darker peaks in the distance. The air was clear, and I could see on the highest tower a tiny human figure, hatless, his long dark cloak belling and waving, and star-touched pale hair tangling in the wind.
In silence I watched the still figure as music filled the valley between us and drifted into eternity on the night air.
The moon was high overhead when, one by one, the pipes played a last melody, and at last the music stopped, leaving only the sound of the wind in the trees.
It was time to return, for we would depart early in order to get off the mountain before nightfall. When at last I reached the courtyard and looked up at the tower, no one was there.
oOo
“Here’s a hamper of good things,” Julen said the next day, handing a covered basket into the coach where Nee and I were just settling.
Everyone in the village had turned out to see us off. We made a brave-looking cavalcade, with the baggage coaches and the outriders in their livery, and Branaric and Shevraeth on the backs of fresh, mettlesome mounts, who danced and sidled and tossed their heads, their new-shod hooves striking sparks from the stones of the courtyard.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling on my new-made traveling gloves. “Be well! ‘Ria, keep us posted on Tlanth’s business.”
“I’ll write often,” Oria promised, bowed to Nee, and backed away.
“Let’s go, then,” Bran called, raising his hand. He flashed a grin at us then dropped his hand, and his impatient horse dashed forward.
Our carriage rolled more slowly through the gates; workers paused in their renovations and waved their caps at us. The trees closed in overhead, and we were on the road. I looked back until I had lost sight of the castle, then straightened round, to find Nee watching me, her face wistful within the flattering curve of her carriage hat.
“Regrets about leaving your home?” she asked.
“No,” I said—making my first Court white lie.
Her relief was unmistakable as she sat against the satin pillows, and I was glad I’d lied. “I hope we make it to Carad-on-Whitewater by nightfall,” she said. “I really think you’ll like the inn there.”
“Why?” I asked.
She smiled. “You’ll see.”
I made a face. “You can’t tell me? I think I’ve already had a lifetime’s worth of surprises.”
She laughed. “Dancing.”
I rubbed my hands together. “Great. Strangers to practice on.”
Still smiling, she shook her head. “I confess I find your attitude difficult to comprehend. ‘When I learned, it was a relief to practice with my cousins before I tried dancing with people I didn’t know.”
“Not me,” I said. “Like I told you, if I have to tread on someone’s toes, better some poor fellow I’ll never see again—and who’ll never see me—than someone who’ll be afraid whenever he sees me coming. And as for practicing with Bran…”
She tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. “Well, he was as outspoken about his own mistakes when he was learning,” she said. “Frequently had a roomful of people in stitches. Not so bad a thing, in those early days,” she added reflectively.
I shook my head. “I find it impossible to believe that anyone could regret Galdran’s defeat. Besides his family.” And, seeing a perfect opportunity to introduce the subject of the Marquise of Merindar, I said, “Even then, didn’t they all hate one another?”
“They are…a complicated family,” she said with care. “But of course they must regret the loss of the perquisites from being related to royalty. All that is gone now. They have only the family holdings.”
“And we have his private fortune,” I said, wondering if this related to the letter in some way.
She glanced out the window, then said, “Do not feel you have to speak of it, but it distressed me to realize that it is I who has been talking the most over the last days. Now I would very much like to listen.”
“To what?” I asked in surprise. “I told you my history, and I don’t know anything else.”
“You know what the Hill Folk are like,” she said with undisguised awe.
I laughed. “Nobody really knows what they’re like. Except themselves,” I said. “But it’s true I’ve seen them. We all have, we who live high enough in the mountains. We do as children, anyway. I still do because I like to go up to them. Most of the others have lost interest.”
“What are they like?”
I closed my eyes, drawing forth the green-lit images. “Unlike us,” I said slowly. “Hard to describe. Human in shape, though some say that’s assumed just for us. Taller. And though they don’t move at all like us, I think them very graceful. They can also be very
still. You could walk right by them and not notice their presence, unless they move.”
“Strange,” she said. “I think that would frighten me.”
I shook my head. “They don’t frighten me—but I think I could see how they might be frightening. I don’t know. Anyway, they are all brown and green and they don’t really wear clothes, but you wouldn’t think them naked any more than a tree is naked. They do have a kind of mossy lace they wear…and flowers and bud garlands—lots of those—and when they are done, they replant the buds and blossoms, which grow and thrive.”
“Are they mortal?”
“Oh, yes, though so long-lived they don’t seem it—like trees. But they can be killed. I guess there’s some grim stuff in our history, though I haven’t found it. One thing, though, that’s immediate is their sensitivity to herbs, particularly those brought here from other worlds. Like kinthus.”
“Oh yes! I remember Bran talking about kinthus-rooting. The berries surely can’t hurt them, can they? I mean, we use them for painkillers!”
“We never use kinthus in the mountains,” I said. “Listerblossom is good enough. As for the Hill Folk, I don’t know if the berries hurt them. The danger is if there’s a fire.”
“I know burned kinthus is supposed to cause a dream state,” Nee said.
“Maybe in us. The Hill Folk also drop into sleep, only they don’t wake up. Anyway, every generation or so there’s a great fire somewhere, and so we make certain there’s no kinthus that can burn and carry its smoke up-mountain.”
“A fair enough bargain,” she said. “Tell me about their faces.”
“Their faces are hard to remember,” I said, “like the exact pattern of bark on a tree. But their eyes are, well, like looking into the eyes of the animals we live among, the ones who make milk. Have you ever noticed that the eyes of the ones we eat—fowl and fish—don’t look at yours; they don’t seem to see us? But a milk animal will see you, just as you see it, though you can’t meet minds. The Hill Folk’s eyes are like that, brown and aware. I cannot tell you what I see there, except if I look one in the face, I always want to have a clean heart.”
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