Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  Was there going to be a scene? Did he dread pointing out to me some obscure law, or some complicated danger, that I had managed to overlook?

  Nee appeared at my side. “Do you not feel well?” she whispered, peering with concern into my face.

  I shook my head. My throat hurt too much for me to risk speech.

  “Slip out the servants’ door,” she whispered. “No one will notice, now that Vidanric is back. And if they do, I’ll say that the magic wore you out. No one will have trouble believing that,” she added with a grin.

  I pressed her hand. A step here, duck an arm there, open the door—and the voices and tinkle of crystal were gone, and quiet enveloped me.

  I raced along little-used passages to our rooms.

  It wasn’t until I was alone that the weeping came, great snorting, gulping sobs. Hot tears bounced off the beads so beautifully embroidered on the bodice of my new gown. I heeded them not. Snuffling, I dug out my magic books, so carefully studied—so long awaited—and began to stack them in a sturdy wooden chest. As soon as I was done, I’d call a footman to carry them off and burn them—and thus save Vidanric the heartache of remonstrance.

  But before I could close the lid, the door opened behind me and he was there.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped guiltily, the last book in my hands. He was framed in the doorway, a look of pain on his face.

  I threw the book into the box. “You don’t have to s-say a thing,” I wailed. Snort! Sniff! “I guess I didn’t think—couldn’t see there might be some problem—you know I’m not very good at that kind of thing. Never w-was—”

  He crossed the room in two steps. “Mel.” He breathed my name into my hair.

  “I’m sorry,” I gibbered. “I know I’m making it worse—can’t help it. I’m afraid I get a little moody these days—”

  He tightened one arm around me, then reached out with the other to touch the top book. “Do you need to keep these in this kind of wooden container?” he asked. “May I know the reason? Some obscure magical law?”

  I gulped. “No—that is, I don’t think so. But I thought they’d be easier to burn this way. See, I thought it would be easier on you if I got rid of them right away—”

  The lid slammed down, unheeded.

  Vidanric took my shoulders in both hands and gently turned me so we were face-to-face.

  “What?” he asked. “Mel. What were you doing?”

  “Getting rid of my books. You don’t need to say anything. I know I’m not exactly subtle—but I did see it in your face. You weren’t pleased. I made some kind of mistake, but I’m trying to make it better—”

  “Mel.”

  Sniff! Hiccup! “—I meant to do it before you came back, so you wouldn’t have to—”

  “Mel?”

  “—s-s-s-ay anything we’d both hate, you saying, and me hearing, and us b-b-both f-f-f-eeling t-t-t-err-ib—”

  “Meliara!”

  I whooped in my breath, knuckled the blur from my eyes, and stared up into the most intense gaze I had ever seen in those gray eyes.

  “Huh?” I squeaked.

  He gave a sharp sigh, and let me go, and crossed the room to stand by the window. His hands ran along the sill, back and forth, with a quickness that betrayed—what? Fear? Nerves?

  I stared. I’d never seen this mood before.

  He turned to face me. “Perhaps we’d better begin again.” A deep breath. “And I will start. I love the magic,” he said. “I loved your surprise. I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you commenced learning magic, for you know I have often wished I could learn it myself. But there is no time, and I do not believe I’d have the aptitude.”

  “Huh?” I exclaimed, but at least the tears had stopped. “But—I don’t understand.”

  “You do have the aptitude,” he went on. “You inherited it from your mother, but I did not want to ask you to take on this kind of study, because—” He turned away, then back. “Oh, for several reasons.” He did not look at me now, but out the window at the slanting rain.

  I came forward and touched his hand. “I don’t understand. When I said it was to be a surprise, right before you departed, you looked—well, I thought you knew, and you didn’t like it, but didn’t know how to tell me.”

  “I thought I knew something else,” he said, to the window, and not to me. “And I was afraid that you were trying to tell me that it made you unhappy.”

  I stared at his profile, lamplit against the dark window, the runnels of rain on the glass sparkling as brightly as the diamond in his ear. My thoughts had scattered like that fast-running light, leaving behind an empty head.

  Deep breath. Another. And when he didn’t speak, out of all the impossible images came a small one, a conviction that hereto I had not had the time to even consider.

  But I had to be sure.

  “So there is no arcane political reason I ought not to study magic? Real magic, I mean, and not this illusion stuff, fun as it is for entertainment?”

  He turned. Seemed to feel the need to speak as carefully as I did. “I know of no possible reason why you should not become a mage.”

  I gave a shuddering sigh of relief, one that seemed to start at my toenails. “Well then,” I said, so relieved that I was now giddy.

  Giddy and shy and awkward—which was an old mood for me.

  To hide it I turned to the books and busied myself taking them out.

  But he read me too well for that. Another step and be was there right beside me, and I had to look up. “I thought your surprise would be of an entirely different nature,” he said tentatively.

  And my face burned. I know it was red—probably scarlet.

  “Well,” I said. “Um. There is. But that was going to be my private present to you. When we were alone. I mean, maybe it’s all right in court circles, but I can’t—I can’t stand up before all those people and blab out that we’re going to have a little prince or princess come spring!”

  He let out an exclamation of joy and grabbed me up—and then set me down again, so fast my head rocked.

  “Is that a mistake?” he asked, looking anxiously into my face.

  I laughed. “No! I’m not made of glass! Oh, Vidanric, I’ve been so happy, it was so hard to keep it to myself, but I had to be certain. The healer said I had to wait, and I did, and then it seemed I could wait a bit longer for your birthday—you mean you guessed?”

  He grinned, a boyish grin. “I suspected when Nee and Bran arrived with your new niece, but instead of looking longingly at her like you used to look at babies, you kept taking her and holding her like you were, well, practicing.”

  “I was! Practicing spells and baby care. Oh! And—the other day—you thought I wasn’t happy about this?” I tapped my still-flat middle.

  He took my hands. “Let us make a vow. Never again will we attempt to read one another without instantly asking if we are right. No more sparing the other’s supposed feelings. I don’t think I can stand another week like this last, thinking you had regrets—were unhappy—”

  “Never. Never,” I said into his tunic breast. “And I almost burned my books, and it took months to get them—”

  “They’re safe,” he said. “And you’re not made of glass.” He swept me up in his arms.

  I laughed. “And I’m not made of glass.”

  He carried me into our room and kicked the door shut behind us.

  oOo

  INSERTS

  The following inserts from Vidanric Renselaeus’s point of view were written for the LiveJournal Community “Athanarel” and are included here for the first time.

  ESCAPE

  Vidanric did not have the luxury of time, or he would have retired to rid himself of the vivid image of Meliara Astiar’s hopeless misery. But he did not have the time. She’d refused his offer, as he’d suspected she would. He did not dare say more; the difficult alternative plan had to be executed. He gave the signal to his waiting equerry as he hurried back t
o the grand hall, and managed to slip inside just as King Galdran began moving toward the best cushions.

  Trusting to the noise and rustle as everyone took places around the Merindars, Vidanric passed Savona, whispering, “Plan B. Notice I was gone?”

  “No. We’ve been drinking in the alcove, in case he asks. Here.” Savona pressed a wine-soaked handkerchief into Vidanric’s fingers.

  Vidanric sauntered toward his mother’s cushion as he wiped the handkerchief over his brow—leaving the smell of wine on his face. Then he dusted the damp cloth down his new black and crimson tunic, and sank down next to his mother in an alcoholic haze.

  He waited—the king’s angry gaze swept around the room, no doubt making certain everyone was there—and when the royal eyes hit Vidanric, the Marquis of Shevraeth hiccupped.

  On the other side of the room, Savona hiccupped.

  The Marquise of Merindar leaned toward her brother, whispering, her fan in the mode of pretend secret; the words were a rustle and a hiss, except for one clear one: “ . . . sot.”

  The king turned to listen to the obsequious Grumareth.

  With the king’s back to Vidanric and his mother, the princess gave her son an anxious look, question in her tense brow. He languidly fluttered his fan, and mouthed the words, “Plan B.”

  Her eyes closed briefly.

  The music was good, but Vidanric barely heard it. Instead, he contemplated his mother, her relief, and Meliara Astiar, who (Vidanric strenuously hoped) was at that moment limping her way out of the prison. Aided by the old goldsmith it had cost them far too much time and money to discover.

  “Signal?” she asked behind her fan, and then faked a huge yawn that she did not quite mask.

  “Russav.”

  The marquise’s profile turned their way, her attitude still.

  The princess said in a low voice, “I do hope it’s not raining.”

  “It is,” he replied, and added inanely, “but it might stop.”

  “There will be puddles.” Princess Elestra pouted.

  Vidanric settled back, hiding the impulse to smile: his mother would be splendid, he knew. She’d find a way to make a fuss even if the night turned summer-warm and beautiful.

  The musicians were excellent. One good thing—perhaps the only good thing—Vidanric knew about Galdran Merindar was that he enjoyed music, if within a narrow range. There had been a time when a fine rendition of his favorite ballads would even smooth away his ever-ready anger, but that was no longer true.

  Vidanric’s fingers ran over the silk of his fan as he considered, for at least the hundredth time, how that had come to pass. Instinct—and his parents, who he knew were more observant than he—insisted that Galdran’s increasing rage was due to his sister. But no one ever saw it happening. The Marquise of Merindar (unlike Merindar siblings for the past three generations, all the old folk maintained) was peaceable in manner. She looked so unthreatening, a woman of comfortable size, her reddish hair threaded with silver, her dress always the latest fashion yet in excellent taste. She never spoke of ambition. She seemed to be everybody’s friend. Yet . . .

  As soon as the concert ended, Savona flicked a look Vidanric’s way.

  “Here goes,” he whispered to his mother, and out loud, “No, no, can’t end there. Can’t, evening’s just begun.”

  Together they loudly made their way to the musicians, issuing drunken compliments about the musicians, the courtiers, and the king. They outdid each other, making compliments to the king’s taste.

  “Oh, let me show you my version of this tune,” Savona said, plucking up the tiranthe from the woman who had been playing. “Renna! Give me a counter-beat!”

  Savona’s attention to Renna guaranteed that Tamara would turn away from the exit, though her cousins were leaving. Sure enough, she sailed toward the musicians’ platform, ringlets bouncing, gown rustling. And the rest of the young people were drawn in her wake, each picking up instruments from the hapless musicians, who dared not say no to barons and countesses, or their heirs.

  As Savona got them all involved in playing a version of one of the king’s favorite songs, Vidanric kept sidling looks Galdran’s way. The musicians’ dismay—the courtiers’ playing—the song, all amused the king. He loved music, but he had no respect for mere players. He laughed out loud, striking his knee when Savona began waltzing with the tiranthe, as the musician scurried around chasing him.

  As long as the king was busy, the flunkeys in his personal guard who hovered in the hall dared not enter: Galdran had a standing order that he could only be interrupted on the most dire emergency, especially during concerts.

  And the flunkeys, poor fools, would not like reporting that their prisoner had escaped. They would linger, in hopes the regular guards who were no doubt searching every hall, hole, and corner, would run her safely down again before they had to speak. Vidanric could imagine them reassuring one another, “How far can she get? That scrawny thing with one good foot?”

  Renna and Deric began a duel with the flutes; Savona tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground, making certain the tiranthe landed on a cushion. The angry musician snatched it away, then shot a frightened look at the king, who slapped both knees as he guffawed.

  The marquise was clearly not amused. She liked decorum at all times, and though she was amiable and soft of voice, no one had ever seen a vestige of a sense of humor in her.

  She waited until her brother had to catch his breath, then said mildly to Savona, “This is not seemly, your grace. Perhaps you had better retire.”

  Savona rose to his feet—only kings’ liveries at the servants’ door—and he said, “I’m not drunk. Not a-tall. Why, I can prove it! I’ll get a bottle and down it right here!”

  As Renna and the others finished the song, Vidanric plucked the fine instrument from the harpist’s hands, and strummed. He rapidly shifted chords; vivid memories re-emerged from the pleasant days he spent in Colend taking harp lessons . . . He started up an old ballad about one of the more famous Merindars.

  At once the musicians took back the instruments the courtiers set down and began to play again, to prevent courtiers from handling their instruments any more. They looked none too happy. Vidanric had placed himself so that the servants’ entrance was in sight; when Savona’s trusted equerry looked in at the door, Russav was on the watch.

  He reached for someone’s flute, his fingers swiped through the air, then he fell flat on his face. “What? Who shifted the rug? I’ll challenge you to a duel, you pinch-faced sluggard . . . what? No rug?”

  “Go home, Russav,” Vidanric drawled. “You’re ruining the song.”

  “What song?” Savona staggered away. “Hi, lackey! My coach!”

  From outside came the stable hands’ shouts, “Savona!”

  “My coach is coming,” Savona announced, pointing the wrong way—he whirled in a circle—Deric gave him a push in the right direction, and he followed his pointing finger out the front door.

  Vidanric watched his mother rise, shake out her skirts, and in a constant flow of chatter, order everyone in sight to fetch things for her. “Summon my carriage! Right to the door,” she insisted. “Oh, it’s raining! I insist upon a canopy. Two! Three canopies! The king himself complimented my gown—it must not be ruined!”

  Vidanric kept up the song until his mother was well away. By then the king was showing signs of boredom, his fingers tapping. Irritation would be next. He waited only because of the song, but he clearly wanted to leave.

  It was time. Vidanric hoped Meliara was safely away.

  Vidanric bowed, staggered as he straightened, and the rest took that as a sign that they could all depart—including the musicians, who had been forced to play beyond their contracted time. Vidanric made a mental note to hire them for a party and offer them double their going rate. When he gained the stable yard, there was no sign of any altercation; he made out pairs of torches moving over the roofs. Search still going on.

  Back in the concer
t hall, the king’s voice rose in violent cursing, then stilled. No doubt the marquise reminding him to control himself—guard his prestige—better to order a quiet search. Yes, she was a danger, that one.

  Vidanric clapped on his hat, swung his rain-proof cloak around him, and took the reins of the waiting horse.

  Rain notwithstanding, he was glad to have time to himself as he rode down the main street toward Renselaeus House. He remembered his mother’s anxiety the other day, when he’d been forced to bring Meliara Astiar before the king. He wondered if some day he’d be worrying about Russav’s son or daughter in some sort of trouble . . . except the logical assumption underlying that was Galdran’s continuing as a bad king.

  At one time it had seemed nothing would ever change. But just in the past year, the sharp divide between young and old had dissolved as more of the elder generation withdrew from the king as much as they dared.

  The sudden appearance of the Astiars seemed to be accelerating that process.

  His mother received him in the library, which was warm, the hot chocolate freshly made, the fire crackling merrily on the hearth.

  “She got away?” Princess Elestra asked, clasping her hands. “Tell me everything.”

  “I left the concert hall just as the guard runner reported to the king. From the silence, I am going to assume that he ordered a search, no general alarms,” Vidanric said as he went to the window and opened it just a crack, to breathe in the fresh air.

  Not that the air in the library was bad. It was his own mind that felt dirty: bribery, betrayals, civil war. Lies. And he was the center of it.

  Princess Elestra pursed her lips. “Galdran knows he’d be a laughing stock if the word got out about her escape, right under our collective noses.”

  “The important part is the collective noses,” Vidanric said. “We were all there with him in that concert, and I made sure he smelled that wine on me as I passed him by, so his former commander was also blindsided and drunk as well. No hint of conspiracy. But he might be angry enough if they don’t find her tonight to order Debegri to hunt her down, and then go hammer Tlanth.”