by Ellyn, Court
Kelyn had ridden to Bramoran still steaming. After two years of war, he’d become accustomed to the continual movement from one engagement to the next and the unending clamor of discontented men and women. Keeping his mind supple, his reflexes primed had been paramount. Coming home to sedentary, domestic routine had driven him mad at first. The first summons to court had been a relief. So had the second and the third. Now, well, he felt that he had run out of time to spend with his son. And Rhoslyn.
In the Great Corridor, the lamps were turned down. Kelyn stumbled over a stack of chests and trunks, stubbing his toes and bruising his shins.
“Ah, pardons, m’ lord!” cried Master Yorin, running from the guard room with a lamp. “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. These would have been well gone by then.”
“Yes, that’s why I hurried.”
The steward set the lamp on a side table and took Kelyn’s cloak and gloves. “The journey proved no trouble then, m’ lord?”
“Damn road gets longer every time.”
“I’ll order a bath for you.”
“Captain Drael was made comfortable?”
“Yes, m’ lord. He retired some hours ago. Early start and all that.”
“Yes … Her Grace is retired as well?”
“Not yet. She is eager to be on her way, kept us running all day, but there appears to be a debacle in the nursery. That’s where you will find her, sir.”
“Debacle?”
“Well, nothing serious. Lord Kethlyn is in top form, I assure you. He and, er, Captain Maegeth slipped a barn lizard into my pocket this afternoon. Fine form, indeed.”
The report broke Kelyn’s glum mood; he chuckled all the way to the stairs.
Yorin followed with the lamp. “Certainly, laugh all you like, m’ lord. I remember when someone else had the same notion.”
“That wasn’t me,” Kelyn said, holding up his hands. “That was Kieryn, if I remember. Or maybe it was me. I was certainly privy to the deed.” Yorin escorted him to the nursery, then bustled off to order a bath. Kelyn pressed his ear to the door. Laughter and squeals beyond. Since when was midnight playtime? He peeked inside.
In the middle of the bright Ixakan rug, Rhoslyn spun, holding her son at arm’s length. Kethlyn’s chubby arms were stretched to his sides as if they were wings. “Fast! Fast!”
“I can’t go faster,” Rhoslyn said, breathless. “You’re breaking my arms.”
“Fast!”
“What new game is this?” Kelyn asked.
Rhoslyn stopped spinning, winded and flushed, and set Kethlyn down. At a year and three months, he ran unsteadily across the rug, slammed into Kelyn’s knees and wrapped his arms about those long legs as if they were trees. “Fwy, Da, fwy!”
Rhoslyn explained, “His nanny read him a new story tonight, and now a dragon helps the brave knight fly.”
Kelyn smirked. “You’re the dragon, I take it?”
Rhoslyn’s eyes narrowed.
“I didn’t say a thing.”
“You didn’t have to. It was all over your face.”
Kelyn stooped and lifted his son.
“Anyway, he’s getting too heavy,” she added. “You have a go.”
“Ah, no. It’s late. He should be asleep.”
Rhoslyn grunted. “Don’t I know it? The house was busy with last minute preparations, and dragon knight here heard us all bumping around and decided it was time to wake up and play.”
“And you’re indulging him?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”
“Fwy! Fwy!” Kethlyn pleaded, tugging the front of Kelyn’s surcoat.
“Is that ‘fly’ or ‘fry’? A dragon can make you do both.”
The toddler frowned in reply, trying to puzzle out his da’s words.
“Don’t frustrate him. Just play. Wear him out, for the Goddess’ sake.”
The knight was squealing happily and the dragon was dizzy enough to need the back of a chair to stand up when Lady Alovi hurried into the nursery and thrust a mug of steaming milk at Rhoslyn. She saw her son filling the dragon’s role. “Oh, there you are, dearest. Welcome home. How is Rhorek?” She planted a kiss on his cheek, but didn’t give him time to answer before turning back to Rhoslyn. “I gather the rocking didn’t work. Or is this interruption your fault, Kelyn?”
“Not mine!”
“Where’s Grieva?”
Rhoslyn’s fist doubled on her hip. “I sent her to bed. I don’t need her help to play dragon with my son.”
“Of course not, dear,” said Alovi, opening her arms for her grandson. “I’ll take over. You must get your sleep.” Kelyn handed Kethlyn to his mother and closed his eyes to make the room stop spinning. “Besides, I won’t see him again until spring. He’ll be a different child by then.”
Rhoslyn’s sigh was ragged with anger. “Don’t the two of you collaborate against me.”
Alovi folded herself into the rocker, one arm pinning Kethlyn to her chest, the other reaching for the milk. “Wouldn’t hear of it.” If Kelyn was any judge, his mother’s retort wasn’t completely guileless.
Upon her son’s marriage, Alovi decided that having three rooms to herself was too much and gave the master suite to Kelyn and his bride. The parlor separating the two boudoirs still smelled of Alovi’s perfume, mingled with a hint of leather and brandy, redolent of Lord Keth. Kelyn had ordered his father’s things moved out; too painful seeing them gathering dust.
The arrangement still made him uncomfortable, for other reasons. He and Rhoslyn got along well in a social setting. They each knew their part, and they played it excessively well. But behind closed doors, they never touched. It made for an awkward dance, staying up late in the study when Rhoslyn complained of a headache and retired early, or hurrying off to bed while Rhoslyn still had piles of letters to write. Any excuse to avoid having no excuse. And why not, when intimacy with one another had resulted in their deepest shame? The parlor separating their rooms might as well be as wide as the Great Fire Sea.
While Kelyn soaked in the copper tub, he listened to Rhoslyn relaying orders to her handmaid two rooms away. Was her traveling gown laid out? Had Rajika received new shoes and her saddle oiled? When the chatter fell silent, Kelyn found himself waiting for her to speak again. Had she gone to bed without bothering with a word of farewell to him? What time was she planning to wake? He wanted to see her off, but if he didn’t know … he would have Eliad wake him in time. No, Eliad was notorious for oversleeping.
To hell with it. He couldn’t soak in peace like this. Grumbling, he climbed out of the tub, tied on his bathrobe, warm from the stove, and ventured into the parlor. Rhoslyn’s door was still cracked open and a lamp burned. She had redecorated Alovi’s former boudoir to echo her rooms at Windhaven: delicately carved rosewood furniture from Ixaka, sheer drapes on the windows and bed, piles of silk pillows fashioned at Vonmora. She sat at the vanity, pulling a silver brush through her heavy golden hair. Eventually, she noticed him watching sullenly from the threshold.
“What do you want? Not another fight, I hope. You’ve already stated your case.”
“What time will you be up?”
“An hour before dawn. I hope to reach the Silver Stag before sundown, but I doubt we’ll make it. Gets dark so early this time of year.”
Inspecting his fingernails, he muttered, “The weather’s turning. Saw it on the way home.”
“Give it up, Kelyn.”
“Can’t I be worried—Your Grace?”
She slapped down the silver brush as if it were a gauntlet and spun on the vanity stool to face him, eyebrows raised, mouth hard and ready for war.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Her expression changed not one hair, and it was Kelyn who glanced away. “It’s just that … well.” His gut writhed as it hadn’t since that night on the riverbank when he awaited his first battle. “I realized today that … that I’m in love with my wife.”
Rhoslyn leapt off the stool. “Oh, that’s a low blow
! Not even lies of that magnitude will convince me to stay.”
“Lie? To convince you? I wouldn’t dare. Somehow I knew this is how you’d react. I should’ve kept it to myself.”
Rhoslyn froze with some retort on her mouth and her finger jabbing at him. Slowly, she lowered her hand, and confusion worked its way across her face. “What, you actually mean it?”
He said nothing, just stewed and squirmed in the doorway, face hot and teeth grinding. When he risked a glance at Rhoslyn again, he caught her smiling a strange smile. It was much like the one she wore when her son learned something new. “Well, it’s about time you came to your senses.”
Eh? She expected this? Was that arrogance on her part, or hope fulfilled? And just how long had she meant to wait before giving up on him? Might her dedication to this marriage go beyond duty? Kelyn decided it was better not to ask.
She approached him and raised a tentative hand to trace the long, thin scar on his cheek. “Does this mean you prefer to sleep in here?”
He grabbed her hand away from his face. “Rhoz, that’s not why—”
“Well, I could order it of you. I do outrank you and all, but I don’t expect I shall have to do that.” He hadn’t seen this degree of mischief in her grin since the Assembly two years ago. It was bound to get her into trouble.
He stammered for a response, feeling stupid and relieved. But deciding there were no words left to be said, he stepped in from the parlor and shut the door.
~~~~
He waited two weeks for her to return, as lovesick and miserable as he’d ever been, hoping Windgate Pass was closed. At last, a courier delivered a letter from Rhoslyn stating that she and Kethlyn had arrived home safely, and so he set in for a long, lonely winter. Along with his regular responsibilities and seeing that his people were comfortable despite the cold, he traveled often to Longmead or to Thyrvael, to hunt with Lord Morach or Master Brugge. Anything for a distraction. He avoided Bramoran Royal unless the king summoned him. The last thing he wanted was for Lissah to think him lonely and looking for company.
At the turning of the year, when the villagers hung garlands of evergreen in the wooling shed for their dances, which Lord Ilswythe was expected to attend, he sent an order to every hothouse in Evaronna. He wished he could’ve seen Rhoslyn’s face when wagonloads of roses arrived at her door. In response, he received a letter that said only, “I miss you, too.”
He paid couriers well for taking pains in delivering nothing more important than love notes. On the other hand, he’d received enough bad news by courier to wonder if love notes might be the most vital news of all.
As good as her word, Rhoslyn returned in the spring only a day later than agreed. “It was the carriage’s doing,” she complained as Laral helped her out. Mud caked the wheels and had spattered as high as the windows. “My rider arrived safely and let you know we’d be late?”
Kelyn barely had the chance to say yes amid the flurry of porters and grooms crowding the courtyard.
Rhoslyn lifted Kethlyn down behind her, despite an outburst from Grieva. “Let me! Your Grace, really.”
Alovi stood on hand to whisk up her grandson. How he had grown. Kelyn’s heart ached to think what he’d missed.
Rhoslyn rattled on, “The mud was so deep at Helwende, we had to stay an extra night, Goddess spare us, while the driver dug the wheels free.”
“Why the carriage? You always ride. The rain pester you that much? Is Rajika all right?”
The golden desert pony was tethered behind the carriage, lathered and indignant.
“Rajika’s fine. We’re all fine. Tired. I need food.”
“Supper’s ready, but I thought I might have a kiss before you stuff your face.”
She laughed and didn’t fuss when he tugged her hard against him. Goddess, she smelled lovely. He was drunk on her already and he didn’t care if all the castle knew it. It was in the middle of that embrace, however, that he felt something … not right between them. Glancing down, he saw the roundness in her belly. “Mother’s mercy,” he muttered.
“That was my thought,” she said. “Listen, we’re going to work something out. That’s two for two. There’s no need for this to happen every time we share rooms.”
The steps to the keep provided the nearest seat; he didn’t know if he was about to laugh or faint.
And so, in the summer of 981, a daughter was born to the Houses of Ilswythe and Liraness.
~~~~
Lord Ilswythe,
His Majesty insisted I correspond on the matter with you as well, implying that you had good standing with the Thyrvael dwarves and might understand how best to handle the situation.
As you know, trade with our Drakhan friends has all but ceased. Indeed, nearly all communication with the eastern dwarves has become impossible. We believe the trouble last fall, which resulted in my Uncle Degany’s death, is the cause, but we are unable to ascertain even that much information. The last party we sent to Ristencort returned without incident, but they reported that the stone-fathers have barred their gates and opened them to neither plea nor force. In other words, all attempts to treat for gold have been unsuccessful. His Majesty seemed to take comfort only in the fact that if we cannot discuss the gold trade with the dwarves, then neither can the Fierans nor peoples farther afield.
Originally, we suspected something reasonable, like infighting or war between the clans. Such incidents are rare among the dwarves, but not unheard of, and if anything were to incite rivalry, it would be an uneven distribution of gold. However, a few weeks ago, when Zeldanor received a shipment of gravel from the higher quarries, the team driver caused us to rethink our suspicions. He warned us to avoid the high roads because the ‘bogginai’ had emerged from underground. When plied upon to explain, the driver made a strange warding sign with his hand, turned red with anger, and said, ‘It’s an evil darkness, that’s what, and we’ll see to our own.’ He would not be pressed for more.
His Majesty, therefore, implores you to approach the Thyrvael dwarves for further information on the matter and correspond with him the moment you learn anything.
Ever your servant,
~Lord Hiller
Kelyn groaned over a scrap of parchment, searching for the most diplomatic words to send to Master Brugge. The foreman of the Thyrvael mines might not be an orator himself, but prying into dwarven business could prove dicey. One wrong phrasing and Brugge might find an insult lurking between the lines or, worse, interpret Kelyn’s motives correctly. If Rhorek wanted the bloody gold so badly, why didn’t he write the damned letters?
Kelyn had little head for words. Encouraging troops to fight was one thing. He was moved by the moment, but when he had to sit down and convey things delicately, the words bottled up in his skull and refused to find their way to the quill. The ink on the tip dried before he thought of the appropriate words and by the time he dipped it into the pot again, the words had vanished. “Damn it. Yorin! What’s a better word for ‘mystery’?”
From the study’s doorway he heard, “Why not just ‘mystery,’ you walking lexicon?”
The letter forgotten, Kelyn fell back in his chair and grinned unabashedly at his brother. Despite the insulting greeting, Thorn grinned back. The otherworldly shimmer in his skin and the luxurious dark blue velvet of his robe gave the impression that he’d fallen from a midnight cloud when the moon was upon it. On the other hand, the dust of a long journey coated his riding boots.
“Or you could try ‘enigma’,” he added.
“That’s the one,” Kelyn said, rising from behind the desk. “Now, what’s a bogginai, avedra?”
“A what?”
“You mean I know a word you don’t?”
“It’s all babble unless you know the meaning.”
Kelyn chuckled. A year had passed since he’d seen his twin from a sickbed at Lunélion, and nearly three since Thorn Kingshield had graced the halls of Ilswythe. Kelyn hadn’t dared hope for this day. Indeed, he had dreaded it, wondering
if those strange turquoise eyes might still harbor hostility or resentment. Quite the contrary. Thorn’s lowered chin made him look downright contrite, and he was not able to meet Kelyn’s eye for long. He seemed like his old shy, uncertain self. Perhaps he had feared how warm a welcome he would receive. Kelyn held out his hand. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“You, wielding a quill?” Those green-rimmed eyes were skeptical as Thorn gripped his brother’s hand.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to have you home.” Kelyn decided he even meant it. “What brings you?”
Thorn’s eyebrows jumped. “You know what brings me. Where is it?” He backed out of the study and headed upstairs to the family quarters.
Kelyn trailed him, feeling smug. “My daughter is not an ‘it’.”
Thorn ignored the baiting, paused on the landing, head tilted, as if listening. Quiet filled the house.
“That’s rare,” Kelyn began. “Usually I can hear her squalling clear down in my study.”
“Shh,” Thorn said, cutting him off. He listened to the silence, then added, “You moved the nursery.”
How could he tell from the stairwell? “Yes, Mother took that room. Better morning light, she said.”
Thorn topped the stairs and strode unerringly to the right door. As if examining a secret hidden in a box, he nudged it open and peered inside. Grieva hummed in her rocking chair. Despite her formal, crisp black silk gown, her feet were bare, and her toes kept the crib moving to the rhythm of the song. When she noticed the door opening, her humming stopped, and she raised a finger to her lips. Thorn echoed the gesture and tip-toed to the crib.
Grieva looked him over, surged from the rocker, and threw her arm across the crib. “M’ lord, who is this?”
Kelyn had to admire her willingness to place herself between his daughter and danger. “What, you don’t see the resemblance? It’s not my fault my twin paints himself.”
“It isn’t paint,” Thorn replied with an indignant sniff. “It’s magic. Now stand aside.”
Affronted, Grieva shuffled away and glared at Kelyn as if he was to blame for Thorn’s intrusion. He could only shrug in his defense.
