That race began with a preliminary scramble, but as the skaters passed out of sight beyond a bend in the river, it was clear that the pack had quickly sorted itself out, and the race had turned into an orderly skate in which each man would play out a strategy that he had predetermined for himself.
Then the fast races began. First the sprints, which were very fast indeed, and just as contentious as Keren had promised. There were falls, and the predicted fights among both skaters and spectators, and some sorting out by the Guard, Selenay declared that two races would be rerun.
Then came the longer races, which was where Alberich got a good look at the sort of pace that could rival that of a Companion at full gallop. The skaters bent low over their feet, with their hands clasped behind their backs, making strong, sure, gliding strokes that were most like the oarstrokes of men in sculls. Only at the beginning and the end did any real fight for position take place, although there were some minor exchanges back in the pack. It was fascinating to watch, and the slightest mishap could change everything. More than once, a bit of bad ice caused a fumble that could drop a skater one or more places, and once, a fall took out the entire back half of the pack, with the resultant scrambling that meant there was no chance that any of them could fight for one of the top positions.
The dock at that warehouse was full of people the entire time, and highborn though they might have been, they were shouting, gesticulating, and jumping up and down just as much as any of the commoners on the banks until all but one of the races was over.
And the crowd settled down to wait, eyes straining to the bend in the river, ears cocked for the first sounds of approaching blades.
Then, at long last, the first of the exhausted endurance skaters hove into view—that is, Alberich assumed they were exhausted, though the ones in the lead showed no signs of it, just gliding on with long, sure strokes, swinging their arms for added momentum, looking neither to the left nor the right. The crowd bellowed encouragement, and in the last few furlongs, the final bits of strategy played out; and a skater who had been steadily in third place, hanging so close to the man in front of him that it looked as if they were bound together with a rope, suddenly pulled away. As people screamed and shouted, he put on a final burst of energy; he passed the man in second place. The man in first heard the shouts and made the mistake of looking behind him, faltering for just a moment.
That was just enough.
The fellow behind him somehow found the strength to surge ahead.
And he crossed the finish line with scarcely the length of his forearm ahead of the man he had just passed.
The crowd went mad, and flooded toward the skaters, screaming wildly, while the rest of the skaters staggered over the finish line.
Only then did the exhaustion hit the skaters, as friends swarmed the ice with blankets and cloaks, and legs gave out, sometimes with breathless cries of pain. . . .
Alberich found himself shouting and screaming along with the rest.
There was a brief period for the skaters to recover; then, wrapped warmly in their cloaks again, there came the moment of their glory, when Selenay rewarded the first three finishers with medals, purses, and pairs of the finest skating blades made.
It was at that point that, much to his shock, Alberich realized that he had screamed himself hoarse.
The skaters were all taken away to recover, and Selenay and her bodyguards settled into the reviewing stand, her ladies around her, and Alberich under the stand to ensure nothing could get to her from that point. Then came the pageant. And Selenay sat in the reviewing stand, patient as a statue, with a footwarmer under her boots and a handwarmer tucked into a muff someone had brought for her, smiling, while her servants showered the participants with sweets and small coins by way of reward. Alberich felt sorry for her; she was musical by nature, and the kind of cold they were experiencing did not do good things to instruments. Nor did all the screaming that the singers had been doing during the races help the quality of their voices.
Yet when the afternoon wound to a close, and the sun sank over the river, lending everything a tinge of red, he thought that Selenay looked as if she would have gladly sat through another three or four pageants rather than see the day come to an end.
But, of course, it hadn’t. Not yet. As the horns sounded to signal that the common folk could begin queuing up to the roasting beasts and simmering cauldrons, Selenay retired once again to the Royal Pavilion to exchange her clothing for a gown created for this particular event. A floor of wood had been laid over the ice, and a special tent pitched over it. Tapestries and hangings brought down from the Palace to hang against the walls of the tent provided further insulation from the punishing cold. While it would not be warm within the canvas walls, it would not be nearly as cold as it was outside.
Outside, there was music, and a peculiar and very attractive kind of ice dancing, skaters carrying torches either in round dances or following one another in a close file through intricate figures that were made up on the spur of the moment by the skater in the lead. Inside, there was also music, and fires in firepits, and candles and oil lamps wherever it was safe to put them. Outside, the common folk feasted on meat and bread and well-watered wine drunk hot. Inside—
Inside, it would be another Court Feast like so many others, the only novelty being the cold.
Alberich waited on guard just inside the main entrance to the Royal Pavilion until the Queen appeared, newly attired and ready for her Feast. When she emerged, he saw that Selenay’s gown—white, of course—was of heavy quilted velvet, with a fur-lined surcoat and a heavy gold belt at her hips. Her hair was surmounted by a fur hat rather than her crown, with one of the great cloak brooches of the Royal Regalia pinned to the front of it, a great blazing diamond surrounded by lesser diamonds, and instead of slippers, she wore boots. Most of the garments would be like that tonight, he thought, and the wind would shake the canvas walls, reminding all the courtiers present that although they might mock winter by holding their feast on the ice, the winter could take them if it chose.
Still. When Selenay emerged from the back of the Pavilion, she was still smiling, and Alberich thought that she looked both charmingly young and utterly regal. He took her arm himself, and led her out into the torch-lit darkness. He brought her over the treacherous ice as far as the door to the Feasting Tent, where her official escort took over. He found himself a little reluctant to let her go, but that could have been because of the man she had chosen to partner her at the Feast.
Her official escort for the Feast was Lord Orthallen, who had had his tailor copy Selenay’s garb in a lush and warming golden brown. He looked extremely handsome, and the surcoat—his ending at his calves, rather than trailing behind in a train as Selenay’s did—suited him very well. To Alberich’s mind, he looked rather smug as well.
:Hmm,: Kantor commented. :He does, doesn’t he? One wonders why.:
Well, it could only be because Selenay was showing him such preference tonight. Alberich hoped so. Fortunately, Orthallen was safely wedded, and there was no way that he could divorce his faithful, fruitful, and obedient wife without a major scandal—so there was no way that he could imagine this sign of preference to be anything but Selenay’s choice to honor her “Uncle” Orthallen in what was, essentially, a meaningless gesture.
Meanwhile, he had a job to perform, and he set about doing it, following immediately behind the pair as they walked up the aisle between the rows of lower tables. The two Heralds he’d chosen to play bodyguard at the High Table were already waiting there, flanked by Royal Guardsmen in their blue formal uniforms.
He and the other two Heralds he’d picked as bodyguards for tonight—Alton and Shanate—had taken the precaution of purloining some dinner from the cooks before the Feast began, just as the Guardsmen had. So they were able to keep their minds on the surroundings and not the food.
Not that there was even the slightest hint of trouble. Just a great many excited, animated people, who were sh
owing clearly with their high spirits that this entire Festival had been a very good idea. No one looked at this High Table with that shadowed glance of regret. The very different setting kept any memories of Sendar’s High Feasts from intruding.
So did the food, though not as much as the setting. There were some novelties, which was only to be expected; a soup served iced rather than hot, many small ice sculptures on the tables, and clever combinations of chilled food seasoned with hot spices. There were sherbets and shaved ice with fruit and syrup spooned over the top—something that would not have survived more than a moment in the heated Great Hall. There were other concoctions that were actually doused in liquor and set afire, that made a fine show as well, though those made Alberich more than a little wary until they’d been doused.
With Orthallen on Selenay’s right, and Talamir on her left, unfortunately Selenay could not have gotten much novelty in conversation. Well, she couldn’t have everything. And she did appear to be enjoying herself.
On the whole, Alberich thought about halfway through, he and his fellow bodyguards had gotten the better part of the meal—by the time the stuff got to the table, with the exception of dishes served flaming, quite a bit of it was lukewarm at best.
He scanned the tables for his suspect, but the full Court wasn’t here—it wouldn’t have been possible to serve them all under these conditions for one thing—so those at the table were the most important members of the most important families, and his young highborn wasn’t among them. Alberich stifled his disappointment. The time to really look for the elusive fellow was coming.
Finally the last subtlety was served and eaten, Selenay and her escort parted company with smiles, and everyone cleared back to huddle around the firepits and braziers to let the servants swarm over the place and clear out all of the tables and most of the benches, setting some against the tapestries so that those who were not dancing would have a place to sit. Now the evening could really begin.
And now people literally poured into the grand tent; the Royal Pavilion was even now being laid out with refreshments to save room here, for this was where the dancing was to be held. The small dais where the High Table had stood now held a single proper seat—Selenay’s portable throne, which she took as soon as it had been set up. The musicians, teachers at Bardic Collegium all, sat near her, on stools, where she could give them any instructions she might have on what sorts of dances to play.
The musicians carefully tuned their instruments, and at a nod from Selenay, the first notes cut across the milling crowd. Those courtiers who did not care to dance cleared away to the side; the rest, including most of the younger ones, taking the floor, forming up into four rows of couples, waiting expectantly for Selenay to take the lead spot.
And Selenay’s first dancing partner came forward, a very tall, very clever-looking fellow in full Bardic Scarlet. He bowed over her hand; she stood up, and they took their positions.
Every dance had been arranged in advance, of course. The only deviation would be if Selenay elected to sit any of them out, at which time her partner would be expected to attend her and offer conversation. Alberich doubted that Selenay would do any such thing, though; she loved dancing, and she’d been keyed up all day without having much of an outlet for her energy.
If ever his young nobleman was going to appear, it would be here. But not, Alberich thought, among those nearest to the Queen.
And in fact, the evening was half over before he caught a glimpse of the young man. It was only a glimpse, too—too quick to be certain, much less pass the sight along to Kantor. But Alberich was good at remembering details, and the young man was wearing a hat that was reasonably identifiable. Alberich kept his eye on that hat, watching as it swam through the crowd, as it swayed and bent in a dance, as it huddled with several more hats off to one side—
And, for one horrible moment, he thought it was going to duck out of the entrance.
But it hesitated, then bowed to an elegant plume. It joined with the plume—escorting it?—and the pair moved along the side of the dancing-floor until, at last, they moved out onto it.
As luck would have it, it was a round-dance, and eventually the figures brought the hat, and its owner, into Alberich’s line-of-sight.
He felt Kantor absorb the young man’s image through his own eyes; felt Kantor “absent” himself for a moment.
Then Kantor “returned.”
:Devlin Gereton, third son of Lord Stevel Gereton,: Kantor reported. :Talamir will tell you what he knows about the young man, and his family, later. It isn’t much; it’s an old family, but not particularly prosperous, and they haven’t done much to draw attention to themselves or distinguish themselves. There’s only one thing; there’s no reason why this young man should be so interested in common plays or actors. His eldest brother’s a sound amateur poet, and the only thing that Devlin is known br is that he has a good ear for poetry and letters and is considered a budding expert in drama.:
Well. Wasn’t that interesting.
Wasn’t that very interesting indeed. . . .
7
SELENAY woke just before dawn; if she had had any dreams, she couldn’t remember them.
Yesterday everything had gone perfectly. With one exception. One glaring, aching exception.
Her father hadn’t been there.
A weight of crushing depression settled over her.
She opened her eyes and lay quietly in her bed as thin, gray light crept in through the cracks in her curtains. She closed her eyes again, and hot tears spilled from beneath her lids and down her temples to soak into her hair.
Her throat closed, and a cold, hard lump formed in it. Selenay tried to fight back the sobs, but one escaped anyway, and she turned over quickly and muffled her sobbing in her pillows. She didn’t want to wake her attendants, or alert the servants on the other side of the door. She didn’t want anyone to know she was crying.
They wouldn’t understand. They would think that she should be thrilled, not choked with tears. After all, her Festival had been a triumph, and people would talk about it for years. The Court had loved it. The common folk had adored it. Even the Seneschal and Keeper of the Treasury had been happy, for she had been very frugal, extracting the maximum benefit from every coin she’d spent, either overseeing the preparations herself, or sending people with stern demeanor and sharp eyes to do so for her. The Feast for the common folk had been a wild success, going on long into the night as folk brought or bought food of their own to extend that supplied by the Crown.
As for the entertainments for her Court, their Feast and dancing had been as much of a success, and for once, she’d had nothing but perfect dancing partners. Alberich had been right; having Heralds and Bards (and even a few Healers) alternate with her young nobles had made all the difference. Her gown—the first time she’d been out of mourning—had made her look beautiful; she hadn’t needed dubious compliments to tell her so, for her mirror and the frank gazes of the Bards and Heralds had made that clear enough.
But Sendar hadn’t been there, and it might just as well have been a total failure because of that. She’d tried to lose herself in the preparations, then to immerse herself in the happiness of other people, and she’d actually forgotten for a little—just a little. She’d smiled and even laughed, and when she’d come back here to her rooms, she’d been so tired she’d fallen straight asleep.
But she’d known, the moment that she awakened, that one day, one week, hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t filled the emptiness, hadn’t given her back the part of herself that was gone.
Her father would have loved this. He’d have reveled in her triumph. He would have had so many ideas for the Festival, so many more than she had—
The brief respite she’d had was just that—a moment of forgetfulness, nothing more. And now, with nothing but day after day of gray sameness stretching ahead of her, she missed him so much she thought she was going to break beneath the weight of grief.
So she sobbed i
nto her pillow, inconsolable. How could anyone console her for this? She and her father should have had years and years together; she should have had him to cast stern eyes over would-be suitors, to advise her how to deal with the Council, to scold her for working too hard and send her to read a book or ride. And if she ever married—he should have been there to see it, to see his grandchildren, to spoil them as he’d often threatened to do. All of that was gone, taken from her before it ever had a chance to happen.
She didn’t want anyone to hear her crying; they wouldn’t understand. They’d tell her stupid things—that it had been long enough, that she needed to “pull herself together,” that it was “time to move on.”
How could they know? How many of them had a beloved father cut down in front of their eyes? How many of them were facing what she faced, the rest of her life without the man who had been father and mother to her, and friend, and counselor? None of them understood. None of them could. None of them wanted to. What they wanted, was for her to be something else, some biddable creature they called “Selenay” that had no feelings but the shallowest, and no thoughts of her own. Her feelings were an inconvenient obstacle to that.
Or worse than telling her to “get over this,” they’d spew some kind of platitude about how he was surely watching her from somewhere and was proud of her, but would be unhappy that she was still mourning for him. How could they know? How could anyone know?
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Sendar had been good; he’d given up so much, he’d always done so much for others—it wasn’t fair! She’d always thought that when you did good, good came to you. What kind of a cruel god would do this to her, and to him?
For that matter, she wasn’t entirely certain that there were any gods out there, not after this. And if there weren’t any gods, then that meant that when you died, you just died, and her father wasn’t “out there,” looking after her. He was just gone, and all those platitudes were nothing but empty lies. . . .
Valdemar 06 - [Exile 02] - Exile’s Valor Page 13
