by Melanie Rawn
For herself alone, Sarra Liwellan was a prize. With the Slegin properties in hand, she would be the most sought-after woman on Lenfell. Glenin did a quick total of the vote in her head. Five in the girl’s favor; three definitely against; three who would vote with Anniyas and two who would vote against Anniyas; one genuine unknown.
But how would Anniyas vote?
The girl paused to bend her head the precise degree necessary for a Blood to show respect for the Council. Onto the table she placed the leather-bound folio of her petition. Then she proceeded to the Speakers Circle at the far right. Her hands were empty now; she would address the gathering without notes. Such poise was surprising in one only twenty-two, but Sarra Liwellan had been constantly at Agatine Slegin’s side these last few years. She placed both dainty hands on the golden rail, standing so that she could with a slight turn of her head address either Council or assembled notables, and began.
“I come here today as a humble petitioner before the Council. For myself, I am truly humbled by the honor of addressing you, and by the trust and faith placed in me by my foster-mother. But on Lady Agatine Slegin’s behalf, for all those of her Name, I am proud that she finds me worthy to represent her here today.”
Glenin arched a brow at this intriguing start. The girl had acknowledged the privilege, professed humility, and reminded everyone who she was. Her voice was clear, carrying, lacking both nervous stridency and any trace of the slightly nasal Sheve accent. She did not tell the Council what it already knew. She did not remind them that Agatine Slegin was the last of her Name, or say what a sad occasion it always was when an ancient family died out. She made no mention of the fact that she had studied and traveled and learned governance. Instead, she paid Glenin a compliment.
“Several years ago the Council abolished the system of Bloods and Tiers that long prevented many talented persons from holding office. This was wisely done, and Lady Glenin Feiran’s doing.”
For a fleeting moment during applause that belonged to both young women, the dark brown eyes of Sarra Liwellan sought and found the gray-green eyes of Glenin Feiran high above her. For that instant, Glenin could not look away. Her magic quivered oddly inside her. But when the girl relinquished her gaze, the tremor faded, leaving her puzzled and pensive.
“I say wisely done, for the wisdom of opening the Council to all has become obvious. It is now a Council more honestly representative of Lenfell in all its diversity. My petition is a result of that opening, and of that diversity. Assigning inheritance to another Name is a thing rarely if ever contemplated, yet here I stand before you, asking just that. In many ways this request goes to the heart of Lenfell’s traditions. It speaks not only to property right, but to Mother-Right.”
“What does she mean?” Elsvet hissed.
Glenin shook her head.
“A mother’s gifts to her children are her Name and her property—unless circumstances force withdrawal or renunciation.”
Her face and thoughts froze. “Withdrawal or renunciation”—right after mention of my name! She heard Elsvet whisper, “Cunning little bitch!”, and wanted to kick her old “friend.”
Sarra Liwellan now divided her gaze slowly and equally among the Council members as she spoke. “Long ago, Lady Agatine Slegin took me in as a fosterling. My own birth-mother could not have been more tender in her care of me. So in every sense but that of Name, I am Agatine Slegin’s daughter.”
Glenin’s eyes narrowed. She now had a fair idea of where this was going. It might be clever, and it might be exceedingly stupid; she’d know when the vote was taken.
“If the Council agrees,” the girl went on, “I will one day inherit as if I was born her daughter. But what of her sons? They were born of her body. I was not. They bear her Name. I cannot. Yet they cannot in law inherit anything but their shares of the Slegin Dower Fund. Where is Lady Agatine Slegin’s Mother-Right when it comes to her four beloved sons?”
“Men never inherit!” exclaimed Veliria Doyannis. “Never! Outrageous even to speak of it! First Councillor, I demand—”
“Veliria, dear!” Anniyas sounded gently shocked, as if at a lapse in good grammar. “Domna Liwellan is in the Speakers Circle. I should like to hear her.”
“Thank you, First Councillor,” the girl replied with a graceful little nod. “As it happens, I agree with the distinguished Lady. Men have no right to inherit as if they had been born women. But I’ve been thinking about this, especially as it applies to my own situation. And doesn’t it seem to you that this denies Mother-Right? Shouldn’t every woman have the privilege of dispersing her property to the children of her body and her Name? That would be true Mother-Right, which is at the heart of every law of Lenfell.”
“First Councillor,” drawled Irien Dombur, “may I ask a question?”
Anniyas nodded permission.
“Domna Sarra, it was my understanding that you are here to argue your own case for inheritance, not those of your foster-brothers.”
“Indeed I am here for myself,” she agreed readily. “But it is by no means certain that the Council will decide in my favor. I decided on the journey here that if Lady Agatine was not to be allowed what I may call Foster Mother-Right, then I would place an option before the Council that clearly favors her Blood Mother-Right.”
“You love her sons as if they were your brothers,” said Flera Firennos, startling everyone. The ancient had not spoken coherently in Council in years, except to mumble her vote as dictated by her granddaughters. She further disconcerted the throng by adding, “Very commendable, child. You have my vote.”
Glenin adjusted her mental for and against columns. Six squarely in favor now—and did Granon Isidir look thoughtful, deciding his vote before Anniyas cast hers and he automatically countered her? As the darling of his Name, if Mother-Right were extended to granting outright inheritances to sons, he stood to gain quite a bit.
Dombur was speaking again. “It is legal for a First Daughter to make an additional dower gift to a son if she pleases. So in essence a man may possess property, though he may not actually own it. But this is all connected with marriage, when the dower—whatever it may be—becomes the property of the woman. In the unhappy event of a divorce, the dower remains hers.”
The Liwellan girl looked him straight in the eye. “Not if a husband retains sole ownership of what his mother gave him.”
Pandemonium.
Veliria Doyannis was on her feet, shrieking; Piera Senison pounded a fist on the table in fury; the Ministers and Assembly babbled wildly; the gallery rang with yells. And more than a few cheers. Glenin listened, watched what she could see, and ignored Elsvet’s splutterings. One day Glenin would bear the son required of her. By then she intended to be firmly in possession of Ambrai. Would it not be a very good thing to leave the whole of it to him, with no woman—no Lady of Malerris—able to claim it as dowry?
Glenin was impressed by this brilliant move. However noble the avowed motive, by suggesting this incredible alternative Sarra Liwellan had secured her own unorthodox means of inheritance. Better to give the Slegin lands into a Liwellan’s hands than those of men. A very clever young woman. Pity she wouldn’t live to see Roseguard again.
At last Anniyas signaled to Auvry Feiran, who took precisely one step away from the doorway. Glenin sensed the subtle touch of his magic. He didn’t calm everyone instantly, for that would make them suspect magic. He merely damped tension in those who had been running out of steam anyway, and the step was reminder enough of his presence to silence everyone else. Glenin hid a smile. What Gorynel Desse had taught him in his youth, a Malerrisi education had honed to perfection.
“Dear me,” Anniyas fretted. “All this noise! My dear,” she said to Sarra Liwellan, “I understand perfectly that your affection for your brothers prompts this proposal, but—”
“I refuse to consider it!” Veliria Doyannis snapped.
“—but,” Anniyas went on with
a mildly chastening glance sideways, “this isn’t something we can decide in Council. It’s a matter for the Assembly.”
“Yes, First Councillor,” the girl replied. “I’m sorry if I caused a commotion.”
“Hardly your fault.” Anniyas smiled warmly. “Is there anything else you desire to say?”
“Only that whatever the Council may decide, Lady Agatine and I will follow your wishes.”
Glenin, wondering if anyone else heard the delicate distinctions in that little speech, smothered another smile.
“Very well, then. My friends, are we prepared to vote?”
They were. Garon rose from his seat and took the leather-bound petition from the table. He handed it to Irien Dombur, who opened it, took up a pen, and scrawled his signature. Someone in the gallery applauded, a sound swiftly muted as someone else hissed for quiet.
Garon presented the petition to Deiketa Fenne, who bit her upper lip before shaking her head. She would not sign; she was voting no. Up one side of the table the folio went, with each member of the Council indicating her or his choice. The order of signing—or not signing—was most unusual. Customarily Anniyas voted first. Glenin wondered what she had in mind by doing it this way.
Piera Senison actually slapped the leather halves shut. Glenin saw on Sarra Liwellan’s face that she expected this. Anniyas, too—but was there the faintest frown of disapproval on her brow? Was she going to vote in the girl’s favor?
Anniyas waved her son past her, saying, “I abstain for the moment, if my friends will allow me.”
Lirsa Rigge looked slightly panicked at this lack of guidance. Tirri Mettyn looked annoyed. She signed, however, even though she had no indication of whether her vote in favor would agree or disagree with Anniyas’s. Perhaps, Glenin mused, that was what the First Councillor had intended: a more-or-less honest choice of individual conscience, rather than voting to please or displease her. Glenin wondered what was so special about Sarra Liwellan to merit the oddity.
Dombur, Dalakard, Firennos, Ellevit, and Mettyn signed. Fenne, Senison, and Nunne did not. Elsvet’s mother not only slammed the folio shut, she leaned back and folded her arms and glowered at Sarra Liwellan—who responded with a look of utter serenity.
Garon reopened the petition, his face showing as much irritation as he dared. He was being made to look the fool by having to open the thing again and again. The slow smolder in his eyes was the funniest thing Glenin had seen in weeks. Jareth Feleson was polite enough merely to shake his head, and in fact sent a glance of tentative apology toward the girl standing at the marble plinth. Lirsa Rigge also declined to put her signature to the document. Fiella Lunne signed. Granon Isidir—still looking thoughtful—did not. Gorynna Bekke scratched her name across the page with a flourish. And the vote stood at seven for, seven against, with Anniyas abstaining.
Precisely as Anniyas intended.
Glenin was lost in awed admiration, leavened with genuine humility. There was still much to be learned from Avira Anniyas. When Garon once more presented the folio to his mother, she picked up her pen and signed.
Sarra Liwellan now owed her inheritance to the First Councillor.
Which made Glenin think that perhaps she would be allowed to live, after all. One did not incur debts from a person one planned to dispose of.
Eight to seven, a simple majority. Garon announced the obvious, then ostentatiously presented the signed petition to Domna—now Lady—Liwellan. She thanked him, wrapped her arms around the leather, bowed her head, and left the Great Chamber.
The Council also departed, Anniyas first, the rest trailing after. Only then did the hall erupt in chatter. Elsvet said something about her mother’s being unfit to live with for the next three weeks, and would Glenin mind terribly if Elsvet came to dinner a few times? Glenin nodded, not having to feign sympathy; Veliria Doyannis could have given lessons in snobbery to Grandmother Allynis—and a swearing tutorial to a Guards trooper.
The gallery emptied. Glenin waited for Garon to come collect her, appreciating the time in which to analyze the voting. The order had been such that by the time it got around to Jareth Feleson and Lirsa Rigge, it would be known that two more in favor waited at the end of the table—Fiella Lunne and Gorynna Bekke. The only questionable vote was Granon Isidir’s; had he voted for, Anniyas’s ploy would have been ruined and she would have been merely the ninth, unnecessary vote. A risk, Glenin thought with a scowl. Risks did not ensure the orderly weaving of the tapestry. But Anniyas’s whole career had been an exercise in winning against odds. This was why the Lords of Malerris had long ago chosen her—for this unpredictable, dangerous, rare quality that they simultaneously feared, despised, and used: luck.
Later, at the reception in the Malachite Hall—four thousand square feet of green-and-black stone floor gleaming beneath a dazzle of crystal chandeliers—Anniyas laughed when Glenin obliquely referenced the risk.
“My dearest, there was no risk at all. I knew how Granon would vote before the girl arrived! You see, the Isidirs want her to marry him, so he had to vote against inheritance.”
Glenin blinked over her wineglass. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Isidir thinking goes this way. With the Slegin property, she can pick and choose a husband. Without it, considering her abilities and interests, she’d be compelled to find a man with a rich, politically prominent family. The Isidirs are all that, with an important city and most of a Shir in their pockets besides. Lacking other family to worry about, she’d concern herself with the one she and her husband would build between them. And though their Name would be Liwellan, the property would be Isidir.”
“I thought his grandmother wants Granon to remain unhusbanded.”
“Not if the woman is Sarra Liwellan.”
Glenin frowned, and the courtier who had been about to approach backed off. No one disturbed the First Councillor and her daughter-at-law. “But with the Slegin property she’s a much greater prize, if Granon can win her affections.”
“Oh, he’s charming enough when it suits him. He could probably attach her if he tried.” Anniyas winked. “Which he won’t. He voted no because his grandmother told him to. He also voted no because he has no intention of husbanding any woman, rich or not. And especially not Sarra Liwellan—”
“—who would naturally want the Rinesteenshir seat on the Council,” Glenin finished, nodding enlightenment.
“Which Granon intends to hold until he keels over in it.” Anniyas laughed again. “Nice that he could vote his own wishes as well as his grandmother’s, isn’t it? One sees so few examples of filial devotion these days.”
Linking elbows, the two women walked the length of the room, smiling and giving greeting, but not lingering for conversation. A slave in Council livery approached with a tray of glasses; Glenin served Anniyas before taking another for herself, and they toasted each other silently with frothy pink wine.
“I’ll say this now,” Anniyas murmured, looking away, “where neither of us can afford to reveal our feelings and so may not cry. I want you to know, my dear, that I understand your pain. I, too, was forbidden my First Daughter.”
Every muscle in Glenin’s body stiffened. Her smile felt locked onto her face. Anniyas glanced at her, nodded approval, and went on.
“I was very young—younger than you are now—and deeply loved the child’s father. But it was not permitted. I was to bear a son, and by another man.” She sipped her wine. “It hurt for a very long time—until you came to us here at Ryka Court, and I understood the wisdom of my sacrifice. Will you permit me, Glensha, to see you as that First Daughter I could not have?”
Unable to speak, she looked down at this plain, plump, unremarkable little woman who held all Lenfell in her grip.
“One day you will understand also, and forgive, when you meet the girl who will take to husband your son.” Anniyas paused. “Now, Glenin! I said no weeping, and I meant it. Whatever will people thin
k?”
She forced back the tears and tried another smile.
“There, that’s better. Let’s go find the Liwellan girl, shall we? I’d like you to meet her. I find her quite charming.”
7
Sarra had drained one glass of pink bubbles quickly, for the sake of her parched throat—and her nerves—before the reception. Telomir Renne had provided it. He caught up with her in the corridor leading to the Malachite Hall, gave the leather folio to his attending servant for storage in his suite, and led Sarra to an alcove where a sheet-fountain slid down a wall below a window overlooking the lake.
“Sit,” he ordered, giving her the glass. “I snagged this from the pantry. Drink fast, the mob will be along in a few minutes.”
“I need to go comb my hair—”
“It looks fine,” he said impatiently. “Drink. You look like you need it. Saints witness I did, when you began that business about sons and Mother-Right! Sarra, whatever possessed you?”
She drank, glanced around to see who might be listening—a few servants and an honor Guard down the corridor—and took another swallow. Despite the oh-so-cutesy color, the wine was bracingly chill and dry.
