All this she told me as we rattled along the last distance through Remalna-city toward the golden-roofed palace called Athanarel.
When we reached the great gates, there was a huge crowd, young folk having climbed the walls to either side, and some were even hanging off the gates. A small girl yelled, “Astiar!” as she flung a posy of crimson rosebuds and golden daisies through the open window of our carriage.
“They didn’t shout last time,” I said, burying my face in the posy. “Just stared.”
“Last time?” Nee asked.
“When I had the supreme felicity of being introduced to Galdran by the esteemed marquis,” I said, striving for a light tone. “You don’t remember?”
“Oh. I remember.” Nimiar frowned, looking outside. “Though I was not there. I did not have duty that day. For which I was grateful.”
“Duty?”
She gave me a pained smile. “Standing all afternoon in full Court dress was a pleasure for very few. It was a duty, and one strictly observed not out of loyalty or love but out of fear, for most of us.”
“You were hostage to your families,” I said.
“Essentially,” she said, still looking out the window. Her profile was troubled.
“The Renselaeuses are keeping the Marquise of Merindar as a hostage, aren’t they?”
Nee looked a little perplexed. “I’m certain she sees it in that light,” she said quietly, and then she indicated the cheering people outside the coach. “You spoke of two kinds of crowds, the happy ones such as these, and the silent ones that you saw last year. Yet there is a third kind of crowd, the angry ones that are ready to fall on persons they hate and rend them if only someone brave enough—or foolhardy enough—steps forward to lead. I suspect that the Marquise of Merindar was kept here in part for her own protection from just that kind of crowd.”
“Would she make a good queen?”
Nee bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t trust my ability to assess anyone that way. But I can tell you this: There were times she frightened me more than Galdran did, for his cruelties came out of rage, but hers came out of cold deliberation.”
“Cold deliberation,” I repeated, thinking of the letter—and of the way Shevraeth had let me know he knew about it. “So far, she and Shevraeth seem two buds on the same branch.”
Nee said nothing. The atmosphere had changed, but before I could figure out how, and what it meant, we rolled to a stop before a fine marble terrace.
The carriage doors were opened by servants in those fabulous liveries—still the crowned sun of Remalna, but now the green was deeper, and the brown had lightened back to gold.
I disembarked. The terrace was part of a building, but in the other directions all I saw was greenery. “We’re in a forest, or a garden. Where is the rest of the palace?”
“It’s actually a series of buildings around one great one.” She smiled again. “You can’t see all of them from here. It’s an artful design. Though the Family houses and the lesser guesthouses don’t have quite this much privacy.”
The walls of the central palace were gold marble, the old crenellations carved into decorative crown shapes along the roof, the crown motif worked into the stone arches above the ranks of windows. Adjacent, glimpsed through budding trees, was one of its three wings.
“That is the Royal Residence Wing.” She pointed. “We’re in the primary Guest Wing. On the other side of us, also adjacent, is the State Wing.”
I whistled. “Do we have to eat in some vast cavern of a chamber with a lot of ambassadors and the like?”
“There are several dining rooms of varying size and formality, but I’ve been told we won’t be using any of them except occasionally.”
We were treading up the broad, shallow steps toward another pair of carved double doors. Someone opened them, and we passed through into a spacious entryway with a complicated mosaic on the floor: a night sky with all the planets and stars, but with the sun at the center. Light shafted down from stained-glass windows above, overlaying the mosaic with glowing golds and blues.
Downstairs were the more public rooms; we were taken up a flight of stairs edged with pale green tile to a long hall of suites. The servants had come up by some more direct way, for they were there before us, busily making the richly appointed rooms into a semblance of home.
I glanced around the rooms allotted to me. There was a little parlor, a bedroom, and a dressing room with a narrow, tiled stairway that led to the baths, below the first level. A cunningly hidden, even more narrow stairway led up to where the servants were housed. All three windows overlooked a stream-fed pool surrounded by trees. The rooms were done in soft greens; the tables were antique wood of a golden shade, the cushions and curtains and hangings all pale blue satin stitched with tiny green ivy and white blossoms.
I wandered through to Nee’s suite, which was next to mine. Her rooms were done in shades of rose, and they overlooked a flower garden.
She had been talking to her maids; when she was done and they had withdrawn, she sighed and sat down.
“What now?” I said, dropping onto the cushion next to her.
She opened her hands. “What indeed? Protocol provides no answers. Instead it becomes a ticklish question itself, because there is no sovereign. Under Galdran, the days were strictly divided: Gold, we spent with family; green, we spent at Court; blue was for social affairs—but he even made clear who was to give them, and who was to go.”
“Aren’t the prince and princess setting some kind of schedule?”
“Apparently State work gets done mostly during gold, and twice a week or so they hold court for petitioners at the customary green-time, and all who wish to attend can. But it’s not required. The rest of us…do what we will.” She lifted her hands, making the fan language circle for Among Friends. “I expect we’ll receive an invitation for dinner from their Highnesses, at second-blue, which will serve as an informal welcome.”
I took a deep breath. “All right. Until then we’re free? Let’s walk around. I’m not tired or hungry, but I still feel stiff from—from sitting inside that coach for so long.” I did not want to refer to my ride or the postponed wager.
If she noticed my hesitation and quick recovery, she gave no sign. She glanced out at the fair sky. “A good idea.”
So we changed into afternoon dresses and walking hats and gloves. Before I left, I told Mora that I’d like to have steep when we returned. As I walked down the fine mosaic floor, I thought about how strange it was to be sending orders to a kitchen I’d probably never see. Before this past winter, the kitchen at home in Tlanth had been the center of my life.
Now I was buffered by Mora, and she by pages whose sole duty seemed to be to wait about, in little anterooms at either end of the wing, to answer the summonses of our own personal servants, to fetch and carry. As Nee and I walked down the broad terrace steps onto a gold-brick path, I reflected that anyone who really wanted to know what was going on at the palace would do better to question the pages than the aristocrats. Except, would they talk to me?
The day was fine, the cool air pleasant with scents of new blooms growing in the extensive gardens. Others walked about, mostly in twos and threes, furnishing me a chance to practice my etiquette: nods for those unknown, and varying depths of curtseys for those Nee knew—the depth decided by rank and by the degree of acquaintance. Clues to status were in the way she spoke, and the order in which she presented me to people, or them to me if my rank was the higher. It was interesting to see people behave exactly the way she had told me they would—though as yet I couldn’t read the tricks of gesture or smile, or the minute adjustments of posture that were additional messages.
Everyone seemed pleasant, and I even detected frank curiosity in the smiling faces, which braced me up: If I could detect so ordinary a reaction as curiosity, it meant that they were not all accomplished dissemblers.
This was a good discovery to make just before the last encounter.
We strolled over a little footbridge that spanned a stream, then followed the path around a moonflower bed into a clearing beside a tree-sheltered pool.
The tableau we came upon was like a very fine picture. A beautiful lady sat on a bench, her blue skirts artfully spread at her feet, and ribbons and gems in her curling black hair. Watched by three lords, she was feeding bits of something to the fish in the shallow pool. I gained only hazy impressions of two of the men—one red-haired, one fair—because my eyes were drawn to the tallest, a man of powerful build, long waving dark hair, and a rakish smile. Dressed in deep blue with crimson and gold embroidery, he leaned negligently against the bench. The lady glanced up at him with a toss of her head and smiled.
I heard a slight intake of breath from Nee, but when I looked over at her, I saw only the polite smile of her Court mask.
At first the people did not see us—or didn’t notice us, I think would be a better way of saying it. For the lady had glanced up and then away as she dipped her hand into the beribboned little basket on her lap and, with a quick twist of her wrist, flung a piece of bread out over the light-dappled water of the pool. With a musical plash, a golden fish leaped into the air and snapped at the bread, diving neatly into the water.
“Two to me,” the lady cried with a gentle laugh, raising her eyes to the tall man, who smiled down at her, one hand gesturing palm up.
We were close enough now that I could see the lady’s eyes, which were the same intense blue of her gown. The tall man glanced at us and straightened up, his dark eyes enigmatic, though he still smiled. He did not turn away, but waited for us to approach; the other fellows also turned our way.
The lady had to notice us. I think I saw a faint impatience narrow those beautiful eyes; but then she gave us a breathtaking smile as she rose to her feet and laid aside her basket.
“Nimiar? Welcome back, dear cousin,” she said in a melodious voice.
“We are returned indeed, Tamara,” Nee said. “Your grace, may I present to you Lady Meliara Astiar?” And to me, “The Duke of Savona.”
The dark eyes were direct, and interested, and very much amused. The famous duke responded to my curtsey with an elaborate bow, then he took my hand and kissed it. I scarcely heard the names of the other people; I was too busy trying not to stare at Savona or blush at his lingering kiss.
“My dear Countess,” Lady Tamara Chamadis exclaimed. “Why were we not told we would have the felicity of meeting you?”
I didn’t know how to answer that, so I shook my head.
“Though, in truth, perhaps it is better this way,” Tamara went on. “I should have been afraid to meet so formidable a personage. You must realize we have been hearing a great deal about your valiant efforts against our former king.”
“Well,” I said, “if the stories were complimentary, they weren’t true.”
The fellows laughed. Tamara’s smile did not change at all. “Surely you are overly modest, dear Countess.”
Savona propped an elegantly booted foot on an edge of the bench and leaned an arm across his knee as he smiled at me. “What is your version of the story, Lady Meliara?”
Instinct made me wary; there were undercurrents here that needed thinking out. “If I start on that we’ll be here all night, and I don’t want to miss my dinner,” I said, striving for a light tone. Again the lords all laughed.
Nee slid her hand in my arm. “Shall we continue on to find your brother?” she addressed me. “He is probably looking for us.”
“Let’s,” I said thankfully.
They bowed, Tamara the deepest of all, as she said, “I trust you’ll tell us all about it someday, dear Countess.”
We bowed and started to move on. One fellow, a young red-haired lord, seemed inclined to follow; but Lady Tamara placed her fingertips on his arm and said, “Now, do not desert me, Geral! Not until I have a chance to win back my losses…”
Nee and I walked on in silence for a time, then she said in a guarded voice, “What think you of my cousin?”
“So that is the famous Lady Tamara Chamadis! Well, she really is as pretty as I’d heard,” I said. “But…I don’t know. Somehow she embodies everything I’d thought a courtier would be.”
“Fair enough.” Nee nodded. “Then I guess it’s safe for me to say—at risk of appearing a detestable gossip—watch out.”
I touched the top of my hand where I could still feel the Duke of Savona’s kiss. “All right. But I don’t understand why.”
“She is ambitious,” Nee said with care. “Even when we were young she never had the time for any of lower status. I believe that if Galdran Merindar had shown any interest in sharing his power, she would have married him.”
“She wants to rule the kingdom?” I asked, glancing behind us. The secluded little pool was bounded by trees and hidden from view.
“She wants to reign over Court,” Nee stated. “Her interest in the multitudes of ordinary citizens extends only to the image of them bowing down to her.”
I whistled. “That’s a pretty comprehensive judgment.”
“Perhaps I have spoken ill,” she said contritely. “You must understand that I don’t like my cousin, having endured indifference or snubs since we were small, an heir’s condescension for a third child of a secondary branch of the family who would never inherit or amount to much.”
“She seemed friendly enough.”
“The first time she ever addressed me as cousin in public,” Nee said. “My status appears to have changed since I went away to Tlanth, affianced to a count, with the possible new king riding escort.” Her tone turned wry.
“And what about the Duke of Savona?” I asked, his image vivid in my mind’s eye.
“In what sense?” She paused, turning to study my face. “He is another whose state of mind is impossible to guess.”
“Is he, well, twoing with Lady Tamara?”
She smiled at the term. “They both are experts at dalliance, but until last year I had thought they had more interest in each other than in anyone else. Though even that is difficult to say for certain. Interest and ambition sometimes overlap and sometimes not.”
We wound our way along the path toward Athanarel in the deepening gloom. Between the leafing trees warm golden light shaped the arched palace windows. With a glorious flicker, glowglobes appeared along the pathway, suspended in the air like great rainbow-sheened bubbles, their light soft and benevolent.
“I’m not certain what you mean by that last bit,” I said at last. “As for the first, you said ‘until last year.’ Does that mean that Lady Tamara has someone else in view?”
“But of course,” Nee said blandly. “The Marquis of Shevraeth.”
I laughed all the way up the steps into the Residence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I think you should wear your hair down,” Nee said, looking me over.
“For a dinner? I might kneel on it,” I protested.
She smiled. “We’ll dine empire style, for Prince Alaerec will be there.”
I remembered from my visit to the Renselaeus palace that Shevraeth’s father had been wounded in the Pirate Wars many years before. He could walk, but only with difficulty; he sat in chairs.
“So wear your hair bound with these.” She picked up an enameled box and opened it. There lay several snowstone hair ties, with thin silken ribbons hanging down. The ribbons were all white or silver.
I took in my reflection. My gown was so dark a violet it was almost black, and had tiny faceted snowstones embroidered in lily patterns across the front. Nothing would ever make me look tall or voluptuous—even after a year of excellent food, I was exactly as small and scrawny as ever—but the gown flattered what little figure I had, so I didn’t look ten years old. “All right.” I simpered at my reflection. “Think I’ll start a new fashion?”
“I know you will.” She laughed. “I want to watch it happen.”
“They might not like me,” I said, sitting down on a hassock while Mora’s gentle
fingers stroked and fingered my hair.
“Mmmm.” Nee watched with the air of an artist looking at a painting. “Do not give that a thought. You’re interesting—something new. I think…” She paused, gestured, and Mora adjusted the thin snowstone band higher on my brow, making it drape at a graceful angle toward the back of my head.
“Think what?” I played nervously with the new fan hanging at my waist.
“What’s that?” Nee’s expression was inscrutable for a heartbeat, then she smiled reassuringly. “I think it will be fine.”
And it started fine.
Branaric joined us in the hallway, and we crossed into the State Wing, to a spacious parlor where the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus sat in wing-backed carved bluewood chairs on either side of a splendid fire. Instead of the customary tiled tiers round the perimeter of the room, the floor had been leveled to the walls, where there were more of the cabriole-legged chairs. Several guests sat in these, and I mentally reviewed the etiquette for chairs: knees and feet together, hands in lap or on the arms, which were carved in stylized thistle-leaf patterns.
The prince wore black and white. The princess, who was no bigger than I, wore silver and pale blue with quantities of white lace. She had green eyes and silver-streaked brown hair, and an airy manner. Seated at the princess’s right hand was a large, elaborately dressed woman with gray-streaked red hair. Her eyes, so like Galdran’s they prompted in me a prickle of alarm, were bland in expression as they met my gaze briefly, then flicked away. The Marquise of Merindar? My heart thumped.
“Ah, my dear,” Princess Elestra said to me in her fluting voice—that very same voice I remembered so well from my escape from Athanarel the year before. “How delighted we are to have you join us here. Delighted! I understand there will be a ball in your honor tomorrow, hosted by my nephew Russav.” She flicked her fan toward the other side of the room, where the newly arrived Duke of Savona stood in the center of a small group. “He seldom bestirs himself this way, so you must take it as a compliment to you!”
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