“Easy? Truly, only getting caught in a riot when the bard died, the threat of hanging, and bounty hunters, and you nearly being turned over to Aberwyn’s men, and dragons and—” He broke off in a mutter of laughter. “Easy, she says. Ye gods, you’re as innocent as a little child, Lyss!”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the truth of his words stopped her. “I suppose I am. But I’m learning.”
“Good. Here’s another lesson for you. From now on, hold your tongue when we meet strangers on the road. Don’t tell them what we’ve got or where we’re going.”
“I won’t. You’re right again.”
In the last of the dying firelight she saw him smile. He lay down, and she could sleep at last.
As they rode south, a different sort of holy person joined their small caravan, one of the Gel da’Thae women who worshipped the goddess Alshandra. She was tall, with a mop of long black hair and skin pale as milk, though she wore so many tattoos that she appeared to be blue and green from a distance. As her kind always did, she was traveling alone and walking barefoot. Her only possessions were the sack on her back and the staff in her left hand, but she was the merriest person Alyssa had ever met. Her name was Rakina, which in her language meant “lucky,” and she seemed to think it fitting.
“As long as I have my goddess, I have everything,” she told them all, “but if you’ll allow me to travel south with you, I’ll feel a fair bit safer. The country out here, it’s so flat and open.” She allowed herself a shudder. “I was raised in hill country. You know where you are there.”
“Be welcome,” Alyssa said. “And join my fire for a meal.”
“I have bread and need naught else.” She smiled. “But the Goddess will bless you if you’ve got a bit of dried fruit to go with it.”
“We do, indeed. You don’t drink mead, do you?”
“Never. Pure water from her streams and river is enough.”
That night, as they sat around a fire and chatted, Alyssa noticed Cavan watching Rakina with a question in his eyes. Eventually he spoke up.
“Tell me summat,” Cavan said to Rakina. “Is it true that Alshandra’s Travelers have the power to bless a marriage?”
“We do, good sir.” Rakina glanced Alyssa’s way. “Do you have need of such a thing?”
Alyssa and Cavan both spoke at once. He, “We most certainly do,” and she, “Not in the least.” She set her hands on her hips and gave him an angry stare—so that’s what he thought about her desire to be a wild woman!
Rakina laughed with a toss of her head. “Well, if you do make up your minds, come to me in the morning, and I’ll bless you in Her holy name before we travel on.”
That night, as they lay side by side in their blankets at the edge of the camp, Alyssa and Cavan argued in whispers.
“You took the betrothal brooch, didn’t you?” he said.
“I did. I don’t want any man but you, and the brooch marks that.”
“Marrying me would mark it more.”
“Marrying you admits I did summat wrong that needs mending.”
“What? I don’t see that.”
“Oh, come now, haven’t you ever listened to the gossip? And there she is, summat he’s picked up off the road, and now he’s bringing it home? Or, marry her after he’s bedded her, the slut? It’s like he pissed in his tankard and now he’s drinking the ale. That’s what the old people all say, innit?”
“None that I’ve ever heard.”
“Maybe it’s different among the noble folk, then.”
He was silent for some while. She turned over on her side with her back toward him. The long day’s ride had left her sleepy, but her thoughts kept whirling around and around. He’s only doing what he thinks is right. He’s a pompous ass, and I don’t care. You do care. You know you do. He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Lyss, please?” he said. “Won’t you even speak to me?”
“About what? I’ve told you nay already, haven’t I?”
“I don’t understand why.”
“I don’t understand why you keep talking about it.”
“Curse it! I love you, and I want us to marry. I know I’m not much of a prize—”
“That’s got naught to do with it!”
“But how will I ever be able to face your mother, should I ever get to meet her? What will she think of me?”
“You dog!” Alyssa felt like slapping him, just because he’d pressed on the worst bruise of all. “That’s not fair!”
“I’m not talking of fair or unfair. I’m thinking of what I’ve done to you and what that will mean to your kin and clan.”
“The clan won’t give a fart or a whistle about it.”
“But your kin?”
In her mind Alyssa could see her mother’s face, staring at her so reproachfully, so sadly, with tears glistening in her weary eyes.
“Oh, hold your tongue!”
“Hah! That means I’m right, doesn’t it?”
She stared out at the dark plain beyond the camp and refused to answer him.
“Lyss, please, listen to me. I know full well you made your own choice in the matter. I know full well you did what you did because you wanted to, not out of pity for me or any other such stupid reason.”
He’d finally said the right thing. She turned over to look at him. In the dim light from their dying fire she could just make out that he wasn’t smiling, not in the least. He raised himself up on one elbow, and she could see the seriousness in his eyes.
“But I still feel like I’ve dishonored you,” he said.
“You didn’t dishonor me. For one thing, I don’t feel dishonored.”
“I do! I feel dishonorable because—”
She laid a hand over his mouth. “Well and good, then. We’ll let her bless us for your sake.”
He kissed the palm of her hand and lay back down. “Not yours? Agreed. For my sake, and you have my thanks.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. You do.”
Hearing that, she could go to sleep in a better frame of mind.
In the morning, when she told the priestess of her decision, everyone in camp congratulated her so much that she almost changed her mind. Only Joh understood. She gave Alyssa a wink and whispered, “Whatever keeps them happy, eh?”
Rakina led them away from camp and road both to the flower-dotted meadow at the edge of the wild grasslands. A white shawl covered her hair and draped over her shoulders. She carried a silver chalice in both hands. When Cavan and Alyssa knelt in front of her, she said a brief prayer, first in the Gel da’Thae language, then in Deverrian.
“May Alshandra grant you eternal joy in each other.” She held up the chalice. “Wine mixes with water to the improvement of both. So does male mix with female.”
She dipped her fingers into the mixture and sprinkled a few drops on both of them.
“Go forward in life together. And may peace be always between you.”
“We shall,” Cavan said.
“We shall,” Alyssa repeated. “And we’ll do our best about the peacefulness.”
Rakina favored them with her sunrise-bright smile. “She will bless you forever and always!”
With the ceremony over, Cavan insisted on giving the last of his hire to Rakina as a contribution to her goddess. Alyssa reminded herself that the money was his to spend and no longer Dovina’s. Thinking of Dovva made her smile.
Cavan took her hand. “What’s the jest, Goodwife Alyssa?”
“I was just remembering that Lady Dovina’s on her way to Cerrmor to meet her betrothed. How very odd that I’ve gotten myself married first.”
“So you have.” He grinned at her. “It gladdens my heart, and I hope yours, too.”
“Of course, or I’d not have done it.”
They shared a kiss, but
Alyssa was thinking, I’ve done it indeed. I wonder what Mam’s going to say? Naught good, if she even ever finds out. Dovina, knowing her, will doubtless find it droll.
PART 2
CERRMOR
When your kettle of soup is boiling over, be careful how you swing it off the fire.
—Old Eldidd proverb
CHAPTER 8
THE GWERBRETAL SHIP HAD left Aberwyn in splendid weather for sailing, or so Gwerbret Ladoic announced. As always, Dovina felt sick for much of the voyage and kept to the tiny cabin she shared with Mavva. Mavva had no such trouble. She came from a merchant family and had spent her childhood on boats. Whenever she urged Dovina to come out on deck for fresh air, Dovina would turn her face to the wall and groan into her pillow.
“Oh, come now,” Mavva would say. “It’s been such a pleasant trip! Lovely weather!”
Dovina would groan again, and eventually, Mavva would leave. Her new maid, an Eldidd lass with the typical blue eyes and dark hair, persisted in trying to feed her until Dovina threw a plate of cheese and sea biscuit at her. Dovina did apologize immediately, which disconcerted Polla almost as much as the thrown plate had. Dovina overheard her speaking to Mavva outside the door.
“I’m not used to a lady saying she’s sorry,” Polla said. “Usually they just act like naught’s happened after they scream at you and suchlike.”
Dovina felt worse than before and apologized again next time the maid came in, just to make sure she’d done so.
Dovina dressed and came out of the cabin for the first time on the afternoon they reached Cerrmor. The Fox clan’s ship, a large merchanter modified here and there to make it more comfortable on its short voyages, glided into harbor but anchored offshore while two crew members rowed a herald to one of the many piers for the formalities. With one exception, no gwerbret or representative of the High King could enter the free city without permission. Since a large crowd of people waited on the pier to greet the Fox party, apparently the permission was going to be granted.
Dovina braced herself at the rail against the gentle rocking of the ship on the placid water. Mavva joined her, and together they studied the view. Cerrmor spread out and up on a gentle slope from the harbor district, cluttered with wooden warehouses and shipyards. Beyond the clutter, houses and shops lined curving streets that proceeded up to what appeared to be bigger buildings. Here and there sunlight glinted on what was probably glass.
“I hate my eyes,” Dovina said. “I can’t see a cursed thing clearly, not even in the distance.”
“Well, it doesn’t help,” Mavva said, “that they’ve whitewashed everything. It all sort of blends together in the sunlight. Why is it so chilly here when it’s so sunny?”
“Cerrmor’s always cold and damp. It’s all the fog. It probably just lifted before we got here.”
“Um.” Mavva pointed at the crowd on the pier. “Can you see that really tall fellow, the Bardekian? Over to our left standing next to whoever that is who’s wearing the ugly red hat and the gold chains around his neck.”
“The hat and chains mark the Lord Mayor of Cerrmor. I do see the Bardekian. He must be from Orystinna, he’s so tall.”
“He looks familiar somehow.”
Silver horns sounded among the waiting crowd, the signal that permission had been granted to dock. As the ship glided toward the waiting pier, Dovina’s eyes began to find their focus. The Bardekian took a step to the side, so that she saw him clearly at last.
“It’s Hwlio from House Elaeno!” Dovina said. “He spoke at the collegia a year or so ago.”
“That’s right! He was brilliant, I thought.”
“He was. This could be very useful. Do you remember what he spoke about?”
“The importance of written laws. And allowing all the people who live in the realm to read them whenever they wanted. Useful indeed!”
They exchanged wicked smiles. The ship glided the last few yards to the pier, where longshoremen stood waiting to secure her to the bollards. The waiting crowd cheered. The Aberwyn sailors did mysterious things with sails and ropes and eventually lowered the gangplank. Dovina felt deeply relieved when, at last, she and Mavva were allowed to leave the ship and gain the wooden wharf.
The solid ground she longed for had to wait, however. The mayor bowed to Ladoic, then began a long, rambling speech of welcome while the gwerbretal party stood shivering in the sea breeze. With a muttered insult to her own weak eyes, Dovina scanned the crowd behind the mayor for a glimpse of her betrothed-to-be. She saw several young men who looked much like the portrait she carried in her reticule, but only one of them wore a waistcoat in the red, white, and black plaid of Clan Daiver. That fellow was staring at the group around her, she realized, craning his neck, glancing this way and that as if he looked for a particular person. When she risked a smile and a nod in his direction, he raised one hand in a polite wave.
“Most likely Merryc,” Mavva whispered. “He’s not bad-looking at all.”
“My thanks. I couldn’t tell.”
Ladoic shot them a nasty look, and they fell silent. Eventually, so did the mayor.
The mayor himself escorted them to waiting carriages. Their luggage and most of the servants would follow in an open wagon. Once everyone was safely stowed, the mayor took the seat opposite Ladoic and the two young women. Dovina’s page climbed up beside the coachman, and they set off, rattling through the cobbled streets of Cerrmor.
“Now, the Prince Regent will arrive later,” the mayor said. “The royals have a villa just a few miles from the city.”
“So, he’s not arrived yet?” Ladoic said. “Why?”
“He’s been delayed in Dun Deverry, Your Grace. The King has good days and bad days, you see, and the prince needs must stay when his father’s mind wanders.”
“I see. What about Standyc of the Bear?”
“He’s also yet to arrive, and we’ve not decided where to accommodate him. We’re rarely so honored as to have two gwerbretion visiting us. We are most unusually honored, because a third man of your rank is also here. Tewdyr of Abernaudd.”
Ladoic went very slightly stiff, and his eyes just barely narrowed.
“An honor indeed.” Ladoic’s voice was smooth—too smooth.
“And his wife?” Dovina put in. “Has she accompanied him?”
“Indeed she has, my lady. In fact, she’s planned an elaborate fête for this afternoon. You’ve arrived just in time.”
Ladoic glanced skyward and appeared to be about to make a remark. Dovina placed a ladylike elbow into his ribs. He stayed silent. Fortunately, the mayor noticed nothing. He was, Dovina figured, buried in his own misery at having to entertain three gwerbretion at once.
Their carriage came to a stuccoed wall and turned in through wrought-iron gates. The municipal guesthouse, a four-story-high stone mansion in the newest Bardekian style, vast and rectangular in pale tan limestone, sparkled with glazed windows. The second and third stories sported window boxes of greenery and spring flowers at every window. When the carriage stopped in front of the entrance, footmen in red waistcoats over white shirts and tan breeches rushed to open the doors and help the ladies down.
A flight of low steps led up to double doors of dark wood, framed by slender pillars. As Dovina and Mavva walked inside, a matronly woman, wearing blue silk dresses clasped by a kirtle in red, white, and black, came to meet them. She held out both hands and smiled. Jeweled bangles glittered at each wrist.
“Dovina dear!” Lady Amara said. “So lovely to see you again! And to meet your friend.” She turned to Mavva. “You must be dying of curiosity. I’m Amara, Lord Merryc’s mother.”
“This is Honored Scholar Mavva of Aberwyn,” Dovina said. “Fellow guardian dragon of our precious bookhoard.”
Mavva smiled and dropped a curtsy. Dovina took Amara’s hands in hers. “It’s lovely to see you, indeed. So! You’re my mother
’s fellow conspirator in this betrothal.”
“Of course. Let me come with you up to your suite. I need to officially speak with you so you can meet Merryc in the proper manner.”
“By all means. I do hope Mavva and I will share this suite?”
“You will. So proper of you to bring a chaperone. One who I’m sure is most reliable.” She gave Mavva a wink.
Mavva blushed. “I hope to be so,” she said. “My betrothed is studying to be a priest of Wmm, my lady, so I’ll have to behave properly.”
On a tide of polite laughter they hurried up the marble staircase together. Mavva’s doing so well, Dovina thought, and here I’m feeling rather overwhelmed myself! Ladoic may have been a gwerbret, but his court looked like a Dawntime hovel compared to the wealth and polish around them.
Their suite matched the rest of the guesthouse. They’d been given three rooms, two with large, luxurious beds surrounded by embroidered hangings, and in the third, cushioned chairs and a settee done in red and white fabrics woven in a maze of braids and spirals. Servants rushed in behind the women, some with Mavva and Dovina’s chests of clothing, others with trays of sweetmeats and a glass pitcher of wine with matching cups, which they set on a round table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The two Aberwyn maids, Polla and Minna, hurried into the bedchambers and began to unpack. Darro trotted in and bowed to the ladies. He handed Dovina a silver message tube with the seal of a hippogriff rampant upon it, the device of the gwerbret of Abernaudd.
“Have you need of me, my lady?” he said to Dovina.
“Not at the moment. Go claim yourself a bed in the servants’ quarters.”
He bowed again and trotted out. The Cerrmor servants hurried after him, all together as if they were bits of driftwood carried on a strong tide. With a sigh of relief Lady Amara sat down on the settee by the table of refreshments.
“Shall I pour?”
“Please do,” Dovina said. “I could use a little wine after that awful ship.”
Mavva hovered, but at a gesture from Dovina she took a chair.
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