The Ordinary

by Jim Grimsley

  “What do you believe?”

  “He tells me this is God’s will.”

  “Even when he’s no longer sure what he thinks of God?”

  Malin’s eyes sharpened. Jedda figured she had said too much, felt a moment’s unease, then stepped along the colonnade toward a display of a horse’s war garb on the stone carving of a huge white horse. “Tell me more about the King,” Jedda said. “I don’t want to talk about God.”

  Malin bit back some remark, flushed, and held her tongue a moment. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did they love each other, the King and your uncle?” Heart thudding, she was looking Malin in the eye.

  “Yes, very much.” The impatience drained from Malin’s gaze, the hardness, too; she leaned close again. “They were together for a very long time, and loved each other still.”

  “Remarkable.”

  Malin laughed again, but this time the sound was not so friendly. “Yes, remarkable. I wish I had been so lucky.” She signaled for more wine, surveying the hall, which had filled with guests talking two by two. The other pairs were beginning a shift of partner, so that all guests might speak to each other. No one approached Malin and Jedda. Malin appeared to be singing just under her breath, and Jedda wondered if this were Prinsong; was Malin moving some sort of power? The woman’s gray-silver eyes turned softly on Jedda. “He has told you why he’s changing the sky?”

  “I’d be foolish to say what he has or hasn’t told me, I think.”

  “I think he has told you,” she said, firmly. “Perhaps I even have some idea where you’re from.”

  “You’re not being very prudent, madam.”

  “On the contrary. Even my uncle would have trouble overhearing us. I’m being quite careful.”

  “That alone could tell an enemy a great deal,” Jedda said.

  “It is information, I agree.” Malin reached for Jedda’s hand without warning, and looked her in the eye for a long time. Jedda felt herself rooted to the spot, currents through her hand, herself softening inside. “Information that can be taken to mean many things. I might want my privacy for all sorts of reasons. I might be interested in you, for instance.”

  “You might.” Jedda spoke through what voice she had.

  They walked on in silence, hand in hand. Malin said, “You may speak as you choose, no one can hear you while I have the veil around us. It travels as we do.”

  Jedda nodded. She was dizzy from the wine and had lost the thread of what they were talking about. She thought of the detachment that would be hers if she slipped the novice ring onto her finger, but, curiously, even the thought of the ring caused her consciousness to change; she carried the ring on a chain hung round her neck.

  “Very nicely done,” Malin said.

  “What? You felt the change in my thinking?”

  Malin nodded. “You’re a novice?”

  “I am considering becoming one.”

  “Very good. Though you have the Anyn hearing problem; we can correct that to a degree.”

  “Hearing problem?”

  “The full chant exceeds your range, since you’re Anynae. We can help the hearing and with the range of the voice, in the later stages of your training.”

  She decided there was no need to contradict Malin; it made no difference what Malin took Jedda to be. A voice began to sing as four heralds at the north end of the hall opened the high, tall pairs of doors that led to the Hall of Welcome, where the dinner was laid.

  The song was ethereal, sung a cappella, a haunting tune, and the voice was clear and supple; the sound brought shivers to Jedda’s exposed skin, and the momentary detachment of the kei state fled her as she listened. Irion himself, from the top of the dais, was making the impossible sound. Something about the song made Jedda lonely; she could make out only a few of the words, too few to create even a hint of meaning. But she listened, as did all the other guests.

  “The Evening Song,” Malin whispered. “Part of our worship.”

  “It’s a prayer?”

  “No, only a song to mark the sunset.”

  “It sounds like a prayer when he sings it.”

  Malin smiled, following Jedda’s gaze to the figure of Irion, beginning to descend from the dais, leading the procession into dinner. “Do you pray?”

  “I have been known to, from time to time.”

  “Be careful, listening to my uncle when he prays, or when he sings. A person can get lost that way.”

  “What about you? Could a person get lost listening to you?”

  Malin had let go Jedda’s hand. “Perhaps.”

  17

  For dinner, Malin and Jedda were separated, and Jedda felt the lack in such a curious, mournful way that it irked her. She found herself fighting the urge to set her gaze onto Malin every few moments, which added little to Jedda’s good temper. Her partners on either side for the initial courses of the dinner found her sullen and silent, the perfect picture of aristocratic arrogance, like Tarma.

  The conversation at dinner left little or no room for side talk, at any rate, and Jedda followed it as best she could. Two of them were politicians, one a governor, two were Tervans of the variety she had seen in the garden, seated side by side. Irion sat at the head of the table, Malin at the opposite end, Jedda next to the Governor of Davyssa on one side and the Novrissan delegate to the Nesset on the other, facing one of the Tervan, whose name she failed to catch. Everyone introduced himself to her and she responded with a cold nod and stated her name, Kartayn, in the coldest of tones. Irion himself watched approvingly as she treated his guests rudely and brusquely, and this raised her status in a way that she could feel.

  Whatever business was conducted passed beneath Jedda’s notice. Between courses, certain guests changed seats so as to sit next to Irion, and he was often in earnest conversation with the guest at either hand or at both, so it was likely that the real meat of the meal was conducted within his hearing and his alone. Often conversation within his vicinity was obscured by the three musicians playing quietly in the background; Jedda figured that he was veiling his own conversations as Malin had done. She could always feel his voice at change of seat when the veil was lifted, his rich tones like touches along her skin. The same with Malin’s voice, when Malin deigned to use it with one guest or another; her partners switched during the meal as well, thought not so often as Irion’s.

  For all that the meal was served in many rounds, the food itself was light, and only occasionally rich. With the early courses came a light, dry white wine called a gabriole; salad followed any meat or fish course, very small portions. Some of this Arvith had explained to her and Arvith himself hovered in the background, serving her personally at moments, as the other servants did their masters, whispering in her ear as needed. “The other guests are impressed that you never change your seat,” he whispered early on. “That marks your status as very great.”

  She acknowledged the information with a haughty bow of the head. She kept this demeanor, a stiffness of expression and firm set of the lips, through the first changes of chair, speaking neither to the person on her right nor on her left, beyond a simple assent of the head or hand. In her head she was picturing the first Krii she had met, in Montajhena in the guesthouse, with his perfect opacity of expression, his look of intense boredom.

  Once or twice she caught Irion watching with amusement; but it was of Malin she was most acutely conscious, as if some part of her mind were tracking every move of Malin’s gaze, every change of posture. The thought made Jedda angry; was she becoming a schoolgirl over Malin, just because they had held hands for a while? Yet her palm was still warm from that touch, as if the nerves themselves wanted to keep the memory.

  For the last courses, Arvith signaled to Jedda that she, too, would undergo change of chair, and he helped her with her garments as she moved all the way down the long table to sit beside Irion while his servants brought around bits of savory pickle. A young man knelt beside Jedda to wipe Jedda’s fingers with
a warm, damp towel. He kept his eyes lowered and moved out of sight. Irion was watching Jedda with immense satisfaction. “You’ve been splendid.”

  “Have I?”

  “You play your part to perfection. You have a broad soul, my dear.”

  “This is something you can see?”

  “This is my instinct about you, but bear in mind my age before you dismiss it. You have a spirit that is capable of many things.”

  “I fear you mean to test me for what I’m capable of.”

  He savored a bit of fruit pickle with a look of satisfaction. Up close, his skin was clear as milk, his eyes dark and glittering. “I’d leave you in peace if I could. But you’ve crossed paths with something that operates like destiny.”

  “I’ve crossed paths with you, you mean.”

  “Something that is close to me, at any rate.” He had lost the edge of his satisfaction, which pleased Jedda. He spoke more dryly. “You haven’t closed any doors yet, my dear. You can still say no to everything. You’ll have that choice until the last moment of your ordeal.”

  “Ordeal?”

  “What else am I to call it?” He gestured for more wine; a red, for late in the meal. “More?” Indicating the servant with the wine bottle.

  She assented. “What do you call this one?”

  “Chasilion. My own vintage. Twenty years old, this one, exactly right for drinking with carse cheese.” He was ignoring the guest on his other hand, the Governor of Davyssa, who nevertheless maintained an attentive posture. “Have you managed to amuse yourself?”

  “I think you know quite well I have. Did you know? Or did you cause it to happen?”

  “Cause Malin to be drawn to you?” He gave Malin a look of affection down the length of the table. “No. Nor did I cause you to be drawn to her.”

  “But this is part of your plan.”

  His look sharpened on Jedda and he spoke firmly but quietly. “The attraction between you is your own. It’s your destiny, just as surely as Kirith Kirin was mine. You’re finding each other. Be grateful for it.”

  With a gesture he turned from her to the Governor, and a silence fell around her, a kind of rebuke. She felt with her fingertips for the outline of the accolyte’s ring, reaching momentarily for that peaceful place in which her consciousness could hang untroubled in its separateness.

  Another change of chair and she was beside Malin this time. Jedda’s body registered the change, the unfolding of closeness, the space between them charged with their two blended presences. Malin looked at Jedda for a long moment. “You were too far away,” she said. “I was talking to you in my head all night.”

  “I think you flatter me.”

  “Do you?”

  Jedda looked at Malin. They held that way, taking each other in. Jedda could feel Malin on the other end of the gaze, Malin’s depth, her kindness. This Malin was easier, more relaxed, than the one she had already met, the one who was centuries older. “Are we near the end of dinner?”

  “We’re into the second dessert. There’s one more, and coffee, and another bit of cheese, and then we’re done.”

  “More changes of chair, too?”

  Malin shook her head. “I have you where I want you now. I think you should stay there, don’t you?”

  Again the challenge of the gaze. It was the same expression Jedda had glimpsed, for just a moment, in the garden shrine: a look of possession. But this one was earlier, younger. This Malin had just met Jedda this morning. “Yes,” Jedda said.

  As if on signal, the music swelled, a tune that would not be denied, and voices, a chorus, began to chant behind the music; these were Prin, Jedda realized, a trio of voices who had entered the room during one of the changes of chair. The voices thrilled along Jedda’s skin, or made themselves palpable in some other way, a vibration through this or that part of the body. The words meant nothing to her, being in the Malei language, she presumed. Malin had a peaceful look, listening. “My uncle is very daring this evening.”

  “In what way? The music?”

  “Not every guest wants to hear a trio of Prin voices, even when what they’re singing is only music.” She made the gesture that let Jedda know they were shielded from ears. “My uncle wants his guests to be certain that he means what he says.”

  “I haven’t actually followed much of the business.”

  “It’s gone well. You played your part, though of course you had nothing to do but give my uncle’s guests something to think about.”

  “And you?”

  She smiled, touching Jedda’s wrist with two fingertips. Throbbing, there. Malin said, “I’m here to learn.” She shook her head. “I was already a Queen once, in my earliest days, in my home city. I had no talent for it. I don’t know how my uncle expects me to develop a talent for ruling now.”

  “Is that what you’re here to learn?” She smiled, pulling her hand away from Malin.

  “That would be part of it, at least. That’s my guess.”

  From the other end of the table, a messenger with word that Irion wished to raise the last toast. Malin sent back word that she, too, was ready.

  Whatever veils had been lowered were lifted now, and Jedda became aware of the many voices that were actually all present in that room. She was seated next to one of the Tervan, who was looking her over with careful appraisal. “Will you speak to me, I wonder?” it asked, its accent marked.

  “I would. Are you a he or a she?”

  “A she. I am Clos Narkos Varde, head of Lord Irion’s State School of Music.”

  “A state school?”

  “You have heard of it?” She sat a bit straighter, reaching to Jedda’s shoulder now. She was so wide her head seemed a good way off, even then. “Music is the basis of the whole Oregal.”

  “Pardon me, could you explain the word? I am new to this country.”

  Clos blinked, sleepily, as if disinterested. “The Oregal is the ladder of magics, the hierarchy, the relationship of all living singers to one another. Irion himself holds all the rest in place. Music is the way he moves his power, same as the rest. Music is all we see, or so we teach in the Mountain.”

  “Is your mountain a real place?”

  “Oh, yes. Why else revere it?” The Tervan favored her with a broad smile, teeth thick and blunt. “Maybe one of these days you’ll come to the Tervan city. Anything is possible for one who dines with Irion.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  Irion was standing, and so stood all the rest, glasses in hand. He looked Jedda in the eye, raised his glass to her. “To my cousin, who is so good as to grace me with this visit from her most distant homeland. When she leaves us, we will miss her greatly. Though you others scarcely know her, please do me the honor of drinking to her health.”

  Malin reached a hand for Jedda’s again, raised it in her own, most natural and friendly. A look passed between them sidewise, and Jedda’s palm tingled. So glad she was to be wrapped in the other woman’s skin.

  18

  To find a way to be alone required simple brazenness. At the end of the meal, as Jedda held still for Arvith to wrap her outer great cloak around her shoulders, Malin abruptly took it from him, maneuvering the richly brocaded garment around Jedda’s neck, helping it to fall gracefully over Jedda’s outer layers.

  “The rain has stopped,” Arvith was saying, “so we won’t need all your wraps.”

  “I’ll be taking Jedda home in my carriage,” Malin said, turning back to Jedda. She had looked at Arvith without the least curiosity, thinking him a servant and nothing more. “Is that all right with you?” Malin asked Jedda.

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  Malin gave a short nod. “I’ve plenty of room, after all.” Two of her own attendants were drawing a great cloak around her, from behind, with eyes cast down to the floor. “We’ll have room for your servant, as well.”

  “I am most grateful, madam,” Jedda said.

  Malin led the way, followed by her own bearers; Arvith showed no reaction what
soever, simply fell in step ahead of Jedda, who followed, with her own cloak bearers taking up their place behind her. Only a short way down the corridor, Malin threw off the cloak and unpinned a bit of her hair. “The show’s over,” she said, looking back at Jedda, continuing purposefully along the plush carpet.

  Jedda unfastened her own cloak again, relieved to be rid of the weight. “We don’t need these for the weather?”

  “The carriageway is covered, we’ll be fine.” She had slowed her step and her bearers parted to make room for Jedda. They walked not quite arm in arm but close enough. Malin towered over Jedda by a head, a supple, graceful body, hypnotic in its way of moving, all arms and legs. She shed all her clothing down to the trousers and tunic, all black, the fabric a thin velvet. Pieces of the formal garment lay in the arms of this bearer or that one. Jedda walked fast but still struggled to keep up. At the carriageway, Arvith helped her out of the outermost of her own gowns; by the time the carriage arrived, she was feeling lighter, down to a short skirt over leggings and the formal tunic, stiff and cream-colored.

  They hardly spoke in the rain, listening. Now that they were alone there was no more hand-holding; they had lost their ease. At the door to Jedda’s tower, Malin looked at her. “I’ll let you out here, then.”

  “Will I see you again? Before I go?”

  “When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow. I don’t know the time, it’s up to your uncle.”

  She nodded. A look of something, like a shadow, passed across her face. She set her chin. “You’ll see me, then,” she said. “Go inside, let your people get dry.”

  The servants had raised a canopy and were waiting, water streaming over their hoods and slickers. She took pity on them, stepped down from the carriage, feeling at once the heaviness of her body away from Malin. She tripped through the rain to the front door and heard the carriage pull away. She felt a fool, stepping inside.

  The storm raged as fiercely as ever, wind tossing the tops of trees for miles, visible in the lightning and the constant fount of radiance from the tower. Jedda stood at the window and brooded. The wine had caught up with her, if she was feeling this disappointed.