I scarcely recognized my own brother as he moved with the unconscious ease that makes its own kind of grace, and in a dainty but provocatively deliberate counterpoint danced Nee. It was she, and not Bran, who—when the gauze floated overhead, forming a canopy that turned their profiles to silhouettes—leaned up to steal a kiss. Then they separated, she casting a look over her shoulder at him that was laughing and not laughing, and which caused him to spin and crush her in both arms, just for a heartbeat, as around them the others swirled and dipped and the gauzes rose and fell with languorous grace.
Images flitted through my mind: little Ara, the girl I’d met last year who talked so cheerily of twoing; Oria, and the summer dances on our hills. I understood at last how emotion-parched I was and how ignorant of the mysteries of love.
I had seen ardency in men’s eyes, but I had only felt it once. With Flauvic, false and therefore easy to dismiss. I wished that I could feel it now. No, I did feel it. I did have the same feeling, only I resented it as restlessness, or attributed it to the need for action, and mostly I masked it with anger. I thought how wonderful it would be to see that spark now, in the right pair of eyes.
I turned away from the dancers, my gaze searching—and met Flauvic’s coin-glinting gaze. He stared straight at me across the width of the ballroom, those large eyes half closed, and a pensive smile on his perfect lips.
Then he started toward me at a deliberate pace.
And my first reaction was to panic.
I suppressed the urge to retreat, bolstering myself with the observation that he would never be so obvious as to touch me in public.
As if he read my mind his smile widened. Just slightly, and when he was near enough to speak he bowed, hand on heart, and said, “I make you my compliments, Meliara. A remarkable achievement.”
I did not ask what he meant.
For a time we stood there watching the others, as the dancers wound about the floor in intersecting circles that drew imperceptibly tighter.
“Do you think your dances will become a fad again?” he asked, still watching.
“Depends who asks for them to be played—if anyone does,” I said with a shrug. “You always could,” I added. “Guaranteed, the latest rage.”
He laughed, one thin, well-made hand rising in the fencer’s salute for a hit. Then he stepped close, still without touching me, but I could smell the clean, astringent scent he used in his hair. “I wish,” he murmured, “that you had been granted the right tutor.”
Tutor in what? I was not about to ask.
And then he was on his way, bowing here, smiling there, a careless flick of the hand to a third. Then he was gone.
Though few had seen him go, his leaving seemed to constitute a kind of subtle signal, for slowly, as white wore on, my guests slipped away, many of them in pairs. Elenet left with the Orbanith family, all but her laughing.
The three Renselaeuses came to thank me for a splendid—memorable—evening, and then departed in a group.
After they left, I felt tiredness pressing on my shoulders and eyelids; and though I stood there, back straight and smile steady on my aching face, I longed for my bed.
The lake blue light of morning was paling the eastern windows when the last guests departed and I stepped wearily up to my rooms.
They were lit, and steaming listerblossom steep awaited. A surge of gratitude rose in me as I wondered how many times Mora had summoned fresh steep that I might come back to this.
I sank down onto my cushions, wondering if I’d be able to get up again to undress and climb into my bed. My hand clattered the cup and saucer as I poured—and then froze when I heard a slight noise come from my bedroom.
I froze. Not even breathing.
The tapestry stirred, and then, looking two steps from death, Azmus came forward and sank down onto his knees a pace away from me.
“They’re going to war,” he wheezed. “The Merindars. They’re going to march on Remalna-city as soon as the last of their hirelings arrive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I heard Azmus’s words, but they made no sense.
So I held out my cup of steep. He took it carefully into his trembling fingers and downed it almost at one gulp. Then he gasped and blinked, and his eyes were noticeably clearer, though nothing could banish the bruise-like smudges under them.
“Now,” I prompted, pouring more steep for him. “Tell me again.”
“The Merindars,” he said. “Forgive me, my lady. I have not left the saddle for nearly two days. Six horses—” He paused to drink. “I dared not entrust a message to anyone. Nor could I take a straight path. Six horses I ran near to death, but I am here. After days and days of incremental progress and extrapolation by inference, I succeeded at last when I overheard a conversation between the Duke of Grumareth’s valet and a scout from Denlieff. The Marquise of Merindar, the duke, and three of their supporters are all ranged at the border. Over the last several months, ‘volunteers’ have poured into two of the Grumareth border garrisons. Those volunteers are mercenaries—at least the marquise thinks they are mercenaries. They are warriors from Denlieff.”
“And they’re going to march on us here?”
He nodded. “Taking each town as they come. But that is not all.”
“Wait. Do the Renselaeuses know? I can’t believe they haven’t been investigating any of this.”
“I don’t know how much they know,” he said. “I did see some of their equerries, the ones I recognized, but of course I never spoke to them, as you desired my investigations to remain secret.”
He paused to drink again. His voice was a little stronger now. “You must realize the Renselaeus equerries are constrained by the past. In the countryside, there are those who are slow to trust them because of the ambivalent role that Shevraeth was forced to play under Galdran. I might therefore have access to better information.” He smiled faintly, despite cracked lips, then he slurped down more steep. “So, to conclude, they probably know about the pending attack. That kind of thing is hard to hide if you know what you are looking for. But there is a further threat that no one knows, I’m sure, because I happened upon it only by accident.”
“Speak,” I said, gripping my hands together.
“Wagons of supplies,” he said, fighting a huge yawn that assailed him. “Had to hide in one. Supposed to be paving stone for road-building, and there was some, but only a thin layer. Under it—I know the smell—cut and stacked kinthus.”
“Kinthus?” I repeated. “They’re harvesting kinthus as, what, pay for the mercenaries?”
He shook his head, smiling bleakly. “You have never traveled beyond our borders, my lady. You have no idea how precious our rare woods are, for they are rare. Nowhere on this world is there anything like our colorwoods, especially the golden. What I overheard is that the Merindars and their allies have granted permission for the hired forces to take a given amount of colorwoods from Orbanith, Dharcarad—and Tlanth—in trade for military aid.”
“But—the kinthus. Are they going to plant it?” I tried to get my tired mind to comprehend what I was bearing.
He shook his head, his face blanching again. “No. They will burn it.”
Shock rang through my head as though someone had struck it. “Burn,” I repeated stupidly. “Burn kinthus? In the woods? Then they must want to kill the Hill Folk! Is that it?”
“Easiest way to get the wood unmolested,” he said.
I glanced up, to find Mora standing, still as a statue, just inside the servants’ door. “My riding gear,” I said to her. “And send someone to have the fastest and freshest mount saddled and ready. Please.” To Azmus I said, “You’ve got to go over to the Royal Wing and tell Shevraeth. Tell him everything. Either him or the prince and princess. Only they can get an army raised here to meet those mercenaries.”
“What are you going to do?” Azmus murmured, rising slowly to his feet.
I was already tearing at my laces, beyond considering the proprieties. “Warn
the Hill Folk, of course,” I said. “There is no one who knows how to find them as quickly as I do.”
oOo
I dressed with reckless speed, tearing costly cloth and flinging jewels to the floor of my room like so many seed husks. As I dressed, Mora and a palace page—who had abruptly appeared—discussed the best route I ought to take. No pretense of secrecy. We all had to work for the good of Remalna—of the Hill Folk. We all agreed that Orbanith was where I ought to go, for that was where the mountains jutted west. They both felt that the dangers of riding the river road were not as pressing as the need for speed. Also I’d be able to hire fresh horses at inns known to both; they told me their names, repeating them so I would remember.
Then I threw together a saddlebag of money and clothing, and departed, to find the horse I’d ordered waiting on the steps of the Residence Wing, held by a worried-looking stablehand. I knew without speaking that somehow the word was spreading through the palace—at least among the servants.
The bells of first-gold began ringing as my horse dashed past the last houses of Remalna-city. Soft rain cooled my face, and the bracing wind helped revive me. I bent my head low and urged my mount to stretch into a canter so fast it seemed we flew over the road.
As we splashed northward, I scanned ahead. If I saw any more than two riders, or anyone the least suspicious looking, I’d ride alongside the road, much as it slowed me. Though I had asked for a short saddle-sword, it was almost mere decoration. I knew how little I could defend myself against trained warriors.
Occasionally the rain lifted briefly, enough to enable me to see ahead when I topped the gentle rises that undulated along the road. No suspicious riders approached, for I had passed nothing but farmers and artisans going into the city, but I was matching the pace of a single rider some distance before me. Twice, three times, I spotted the lone figure cresting a hill as I did. No bright colors of livery, only an anonymous dark cloak.
A messenger from Flauvic? Who else could it be? For Azmus would have reached the Royal Wing to speak his story the same time as I set out. No one sent by the Renselaeuses could possibly be ahead of me.
Of course the rider could be on some perfectly honest business affair that had nothing to do with the terrible threat of warfare looming like thunderclouds over the land. This thought comforted me for a hill or two, until a brief ray of light slanting down from between some clouds bathed the rider in light, striking a cold gleam off a steel helm.
Merchants’ servants did not wear helms. A messenger, then.
I rode on, squinting ahead despite a sudden downpour that severely limited visibility. It also slowed my horse. Despite the paved road, the deep puddles interfered with speed and made the ride more of an effort. When bells rang over the hills, indicating the change from gold to green, both my horse and I were weary.
The plan had been for me to halt at the Farjoon Anchor, where the river bends to the west. My drooping horse could stop, I decided, though whether or not I did would depend on what the rider ahead did.
Presently I crested a hill. Spread below me in a little valley was the village I’d been told to look for. I scanned the road ahead and saw the mysterious rider splash up the narrow lane into the village, disappearing among the small cluster of houses.
My mount trotted down the hill and into the village. The inn was a long, low building in the center, with an anchor painted on its swinging sign. I hunched into my wet cloak, though no one could possibly recognize me, and slid off my steaming mount as stablehands ran to the bridle. “Fresh horse,” I said, surprised at how husky my voice came out—and when my feet hit the mud, the world seemed to spin.
Before I ate or drank I had to find out who that rider was.
I stepped into the common room, scanning the few people seated on cushions at the low, rough tables. They all had gray, brown, or blue cloaks hung behind them, or hats. No dark cloaks or helms. So I wandered farther inside and encountered a young woman about my age.
“Hot punch? Fish stew?” she offered, wiping her hands on her apron.
“My companion came in just ahead of me. Wearing a helm. Where—”
“Oh! The equerry? Wanted a private room. Third down, that hall,” she said cheerily. “What’ll I bring you?”
“I’ll order in a moment.” The savory aroma of sweet-pepper fish stew had woken my insides fiercely, and I remembered that I had not eaten a bite the entire day before.
As I trod down the hall, I made and discarded plausible excuses. When I reached the tapestry I decided against speaking at all. I’d take a quick peek, and if the livery was Merindar, then I’d have to hire someone to ride back and warn the Renselaeuses.
I pulled my soggy cloak up around my eyes, stuck out my gloved finger, and poked gently at the edge of the tapestry.
Remember the surmise I recorded on my arrival at the Residence that day in early spring—that if anyone were to know everyone’s business, it would be the servants?
I glanced inside in time to see a pale, familiar face jerk up.
And for a long, amazing moment, there we were, Meliara and Shevraeth, mud-spattered and wet, just like last year, looking at one another in silence. Then I snatched my hand back, now thoroughly embarrassed, and spun around intending retreat. But I moved too fast for my tired head and fell against the wall, as once again the world lurched around me.
With a faint metallic ching of chain mail he appeared, and took hold of my arm. He drew me inside the bare little parlor and pointed silently at a straw-stuffed cushion. My legs folded abruptly, and I plopped down.
“Azmus—” I croaked. “How could you—I sent him—”
“Drink.” Shevraeth put a mug into my hands. “Then we can talk.”
Obediently I took a sip. Sweet coffee burned its way pleasantly down my throat and pushed back the fog threatening to enfold my brain. I took a longer draught, then sighed.
The marquis gazed back at me, his face tense and tired, the pupils of his eyes wide and dark. The intensity of that unwavering gaze sent a complexity of emotions chasing through me like darting starlings.
“How did you get ahead of me so fast?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
His eyes widened in surprise, as if he’d expected to hear anything but that. “How,” he asked slowly, “did you know I was here? We told no one when I was leaving, or my route, outside of two servants.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” I said. “I sent Azmus to you. With the news. About the Merindars. You mean you already knew?”
“Let us backtrack a little,” he said, “if you will bear with my lamentable slowness. I take it, then, that you were not riding thus speedily to join me?” With his old sardonic tone he added, “Because if you were, your retreat just now is somewhat puzzling, you’ll have to admit.”
I said indignantly, “I peeked in because I thought you might be one of the Merindars, and if so, I’d send a warning back to you. I mean, you if you were there. In Remalna-city. Does that make sense?” I frowned, shook my head, then gulped down the rest of the coffee.
He smiled slightly, but the intensity had not left his gaze. The serving maid came in, carrying a bowl of food and some fresh bread. “Will you have some as well?” she said to me.
“Please,” Shevraeth said before I could speak. “And more coffee.” He waited until she went out, then said, “Now, begin again, please. What is it you’re trying to tell me, and where are you going?”
“I’m going to Orbanith,” I said, and forced myself to look away from the steam curling up from the stew at his elbow. My mouth watered. I swallowed and turned my attention to pulling off my sodden gloves. “I guess I am trying to tell you what you already seem to know—that the Merindars are going on the attack, with hired mercenaries from Denlieff. But—why do you want me to tell you when you do already know all this?” I looked up from wringing out my gloves.
“I am trying,” he said with great care, “to ascertain what your place is in the events about to transpire, and
to act accordingly. From whom did you get your information?”
The world seemed to lurch again, but this time it was not my vision. A terrible sense of certainty constricted my heart and mind as I realized what he was striving so heroically not to say—nevertheless, what he meant.
He thought I was on the other side.
Seen from an objective perspective, it was entirely possible that I was the phantom messenger from the Merindars. After all, last year I’d made a try for the crown. Since then, on the surface I’d been an implacable enemy to Shevraeth—and even though that had changed, I had not given any sign of those changes. Meanwhile I seemed to have suddenly acquired information that no one else in Athanarel had. Except for him.
And, probably, Flauvic.
I saw it now, the real reason why Flauvic had made the public gestures of friendship with me. What an easy way to foster Shevraeth’s distrust, to force him to divide his attentions! The most recent gesture having been a few candles ago at my ball.
The maid came in with another bowl and bread, and set them at my elbow, but I scarcely heeded the food. Now I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t even explain, because anything I gabbled out would seem mere contrivance. The fact was, I had refused all along any kind of straightforward communication with the man now sitting across from me, and too many lives were at stake for him to risk being wrong.
The real tragedy was that there were too many lives at stake in both races. And so, even though I could comprehend why I might end up as a prisoner, like last year, I also knew that I would fight, as hard as I was capable, to remain free.
I peered anxiously at him, sick and miserable.
“Tell me where you got your information,” he said.
“Azmus. Our old spy.” My lips were numb, and I started to shiver. Hugging my arms against my stomach, I said, “My reasons were partly stupid and partly well-meaning, but I sent him to find out what Arthal Merindar was after. She wrote me during winter—but you knew about that.”
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