Lovers and Beloveds

by MeiLin Miranda

  "That's strangely thoughtful of her."

  "Respect for clergy, please, Temmy." Ansella stared out the window at the rolling pastures, dotted with horses and sheep. "We won't get much time alone from now on. Your father will be getting the most of you. But promise me you'll spend a little time with me, and with your sisters. We won't have them much longer. In fact, it won't be long until you'll be my only baby left."

  Temmin opened his eyes again. "Mama, I'm not sure about anything in my life right now but you. Things and people I thought I knew--everything's upside down."

  "You'll be rightside up before you know it, my sweetheart. Listen a little while longer, and I'll leave you to your headache," she smiled. A pause, and she turned serious. "You will be around women a great deal in the City, many of them...notorious," she forced out. "I want you to be careful."

  "Notorious women?" he said hopefully. This was not the first time his mother had gone on about notorious women, to the point that Temmin was extremely curious to meet one and find out what made them so notorious.

  "You'll be tempted to make...make wrong decisions. I don't want you falling into some hussy's clutches, or worse, led into spending time at...oh, at houses of ill-repute!"

  Temmin had no idea what a house of ill-repute was, and said so.

  "This is your father's office, but he would never give you good advice!" murmured his mother in agitation. "It's a house where women sell themselves, a horrible, horrible place! Nothing more infamous!"

  "I'm sorry, Mama, but d'you mean a whorehouse?"

  His mother winced. "It pains me to hear the word."

  "Pains me to say it to you, but you would ask! Never worry," he said. "I won't go to one." In fact, his mother had spent many years arming him against hussies and loose women, whatever they were; he had no clear idea what went on in a whorehouse, but he knew the men who went to them should be staying at home, or at worst going to the Lovers' Temple and renewing their faith, though he had no clear idea what happened in the Temple, either.

  The rolling pastures and woods turned to new-plowed fields. At the outskirts of Reggiston, the Station stood in its proud new cast iron and gilded glory. Waving crowds stood in little knots around the station. On the tracks, the royal train awaited, a great black locomotive at its head, its details picked out in gold, the platform round it and its coal tender behind painted the deep red called Tremontine red: the color of garnet, of pomegranate, of a thick pool of blood. On each side of the handrail at the very front of the engine flew small Tremontine flags in that same red, three golden triangles grouped in the middle.

  Temmin settled into the resplendent, wood-paneled car that belonged to his father, the salon car sandwiched between it and his mother's coach. Beyond that rolled the royal dining car, and at train's end trailed the kitchen. The remaining entourage traveled closer to the engine and its noise and smoke.

  By the time the train left Reggiston behind, he felt a little better and asked for a small lunch. "Meaning one chicken, not two?" said Jenks on his way to the kitchens. But once the plate sat before him, Temmin picked at it. "Now you have me worried, young sir. You should be over the worst of it by now."

  Temmin shook his head, and ran his fingers through his locks; Jenks winced in dismay at the ruination of the royal hair style. "No, I'm all right. A little headachy, but whatever you gave me did the trick." He furrowed the mashed potatoes with his fork. "Jenks, what if I can't do this?"

  "Do what, Your Highness?"

  "Be what they expect me to be. Be the Heir. Be King in my turn." He knocked the fork against the plate's rim. "I mean, I think I know what's going on, and then I don't. I don't want to go to the City."

  "So you've said about two dozen times today, the day before, the day before that, and all of Winter's End. But you're on the train to Tremont City, and when you get there, that's where you're staying."

  "I'm the Viscount of Prunedale, and I don't have to go there," said Temmin. "Though I do like prunes."

  Jenks ignored this. "Besides, you haven't seen Miss Sedra in three years, and it's been a year and a half since Miss Ellika left."

  "Oh, I'll be very glad to see them, and Papa, too. I haven't seen him since he came to fetch Ellika." Temmin stopped sculpting the potatoes. "It's funny. I've hardly seen him apart from a visit or two every year, but Mama always insists we call him Papa."

  "Her Majesty wanted you to feel close to your father despite the intervening miles, I believe. She has certain ideas about raising healthy children. Are you through?"

  "No, I'm just thinking." He took a few mouthfuls. "Jenks, do you know why Alvo wasn't allowed to come with me? I wanted him to be my groom."

  Jenks stopped brushing Temmin's dinner coat. "Oh, young sir. You know the answer to that yourself."

  Temmin remembered Alvo's words: We can't be friends forever, they won't let us. What were they now, he wondered? He decided not to think on it, and ate another chicken leg.

  To Temmin's dismay, his mother's religious advisor joined the royal party at dinner. At Whithorse, Sister Ibbit lived at the Temple of Venna in Reggiston and never dined with them, but tonight Ansella seated the priestess to her left and Temmin to her right. Looking up from the soup, he caught Ibbit staring at him in contempt, and wondered if he'd have to endure her half-hearted religious instruction at the Keep. He'd managed to out-and-out skip most of it, with Ibbit's approval; her open hostility led him to avoid her as much from personal dislike as boredom, and she seemed to share his feeling.

  After dinner, he and his mother were to play cards in the salon car, but before he could follow her there, Ibbit blocked his way. "A word with you," she said. "We will not be taking up our lessons in the City, Your Highness. I am sure you will have too many other demands on your time."

  "Oh," said Temmin, trying to contain his glee. "I shall be very...sorry...to miss our times together."

  She examined him down the length of her forbidding nose, and cocked her head. "Our understanding cannot be continued at the Keep. You will be watched too closely for that comfortable relationship to continue."

  Temmin thought to himself there had never been anything comfortable about their relationship, but said nothing.

  "I'm sure they'll give you a Brother to pretend to instruct you while giving you a good beating," she continued, "though I don't know what kind of religious instruction a priest of Farr could possibly impart. Furthermore, I have always felt religious instruction wasted upon men. I will be happy to end the connection." She turned and left the dining car, holding her gray robes clear of the platform gates.

  That answered that question, thought Temmin.

  Over the next two days, Temmin watched the scenery change from Whithorse's beloved rolling grasslands and forests to the foothills of the Altenne Mountains, rising high and snowy above the valley. Many small cities and towns dotted the landscape, often built up the sides of the lower foothills each with their Temples clustered at the top in the ancient style. The train passed through several, slowing down as it approached the stations but never stopping, though Temmin wished they would; he’d seen none of the country outside Whithorse, and the mountains looked like the borders of the world.

  They came to a small town tucked in a little valley, its thick bands of orchards so covered in blossom they looked more like clouds than trees. It was Temmin's holding of Prunedale, and he chuckled as they passed; he'd had to go there after all.

  Up and up, through the dusky foothills, into the pines as the track switched back through the Sella Gap and up above the treeline, the track cutting through the snow in thick, blue-white walls on each side. They crawled down the Altennes into the Feather River valley. The long, fat ribbon of trees and settlements along its banks got closer and closer until the train plunged into the valley, tracing the river itself. Their progress slowed as the train passed through countless villages and towns, but again did not stop.

  All along the way, especially here by the river, people gathered along the tracks to watc
h the train pass, though Temmin wondered why they cared. Didn't this train come through at least once a week? The tracks followed the Feather west and south toward its confluence with the Shadow River, leaving the countryside around the City behind; it slowed near the city, and crowds packed beside the tracks. "Why is everyone so glad to see the train?" said Temmin.

  "They're glad to see you, young sir," answered Jenks. "Now. Out of that dirty shirt--how you manage to drop sausages down your front at your age I'll never know." Jenks coaxed his charge into clean linen, a formal gray suit, Tremontine red brocade waistcoat, black cravat and his grandfather's amber studs and cufflinks. "I shall not have you reflect badly on Whithorse, Your Highness."

  "You mean, you."

  "And your mother would kill me if you weren't properly turned out," rumbled Jenks in his gravelly baritone, putting an end to any argument.

  "Ugh. I feel like one of Elly's old dolls." Temmin moved to run a hand through his golden hair, but at a look from Jenks, he checked himself and put his hat on his head with a sigh lost in the hiss of the train's brakes; they had arrived at the River Street Grand Railway Station.

  Red and gold banners fluttered from the empty railway station's high ceiling, and crowds thronged the streets all around for a glimpse over the shoulders of the Royal Guard. Around the platform itself, Brothers stood guard; the spring breeze rushed through the open station, picking up the long strands of the Tremontine red horsehair tassels atop their bright silver helmets. He wondered how the Brothers could stand the strands tickling their faces, but then, the priests of Farr were cut from stone, the saying went.

  His father and sisters stood alone on the platform. The gray in King Harsin's dark hair and beard had increased, but otherwise he looked the same: a serious, handsome face with a slight, sardonic twist to it; powerful; tall. Temmin wondered if he were still shorter than the King, and tugged his waistcoat down.

  His sisters looked like women now; Sedra was just turned twenty-one and Ellika was halfway between nineteen and twenty. In her elegantly tailored, sober gray coat, Sedra resembled the King, tall, dark and serious; her face bore a twist as well, but one less cynical and more humorous. Merry little Ellika dressed in rose, their mother's twin but for their father's dark eyes. Ellika rose up on her toes in excitement, until Sedra put a quelling hand on her shoulder.

  Temmin and the Queen stepped onto the platform. A roar went up. It shook his bones; he had never heard so many voices cheering at once, nor seen so many people. Hundreds? Thousands? He thought he heard his name among the cheers. The King greeted his wife with a kiss on each cheek; he took his son's hand in a too-strong grip. His sisters each offered a cheek to be kissed, and Ellika whispered, "I've missed you! I'm so glad you're finally here!"

  Ansella's daughters both forgot their dignity and threw themselves into their mother's arms. "There, my girls," she laughed. "I'm not going anywhere. We're in public! Behave!"

  Greetings exchanged, the crowds acknowledged, the royal family left the station. As the royal carriage rolled away, Temmin saw his horse Jebby taken off the train and thought of Alvo. Why couldn't he have come? And why had he ruined everything?

  "Temmy, are you listening?" said Ellika, whacking his knee with her fan. He started, and glanced out the window; they had crossed the Feather at Kingsbridge, and were approaching the great gates leading to the parklands around the base of the cliff that held Tremont Keep.

  "We're having a ball for your birthday," said Sedra.

  "A ball? Who wants a ball?"

  "You do," said the King.

  "Me? I hate balls, they're boring!" He'd been dragged to many a small dance, filled with pimply cousins and dowdy girls from the local gentry who couldn't do more than giggle, but then Ibbit arrived and the dances stopped--one of the few benefits of the Sister's presence.

  "I did tell you about it, Temmy," murmured his mother.

  "You will not be bored," said Harsin. "You will smile, you will dance, and you will celebrate your coming of age with your people. We will not discuss this." His father had not changed. "You will enjoy yourself more than you suspect, son," Harsin amended. "I know you're used to doing as you please, mucking about with the stable hands--" here he gave his wife a sharp look-- "but you're an adult now. I expect you to take up your studies in all seriousness. My own tutor will be taking you in hand. Your childhood is over, son."

  The gates closed with a thunk. The carriage rolled down the long drive, toward the ancient fortress castle on the cliff.

  Temmin woke the next morning from a dream of Alvy with breasts, to find his brown bedcurtains had turned red. He sat up, puzzled, before remembering he wasn't in bed at home. The curtains parted, and Jenks stuck his head in. "Ah, we're awake, are we?"

  "I want to go home, Jenks," said Temmin as he rubbed sleep from one eye.

  "We are home, young sir. Moping won't change it, and I for one am tired of your complaining."

  "How you talk to me! If you were anyone but you, I should have you horsewhipped."

  "If you were anyone but you, I'd've taken you over my knee by now." Jenks opened the window shades to reveal rosy clouds in the pre-dawn sky. "But you are you, and I am me. You wouldn't whip a horse anyway. Now--" He waggled a pair of riding boots. "I suggest you keep your old habits in this new home, and be at the stables before breakfast."

  "Jebby! He must be scared stiff!" Temmin walked into the wardrobe, and stopped short. "Where are my riding clothes in this warehouse?"

  "On the dressing stand, Your Highness."

  Temmin surveyed the immaculate riding coat and breeches. "A cravat? A hat? Jenks, these are not riding clothes. These are formal riding clothes. Where's my cap?"

  "I got rid of that rag before we left. It's high time you do as the Cavalry does, if you have any aspirations to it. Clothes make the officer."

  "If clothes make the officer, why were you a corporal?" grumped Temmin.

  A clean and exquisitely dressed Temmin stumped down to the stables, a small flask of sweet wine and a prayer written on birch bark in his pocket for his offering to Amma. Bath before riding, what nonsense. He'd just get dirty again. At least Jenks allowed his old boots, though shined to an unaccustomed polish. When Jenks could no longer see him, he stashed his smart topper in a secluded bush, fished the disreputable, ancient tweed cap he'd filched from Jenks back home from his pocket, and slapped it on his head.

  The stables at the Keep made the Estate's yards look small, and he looked forward to a heady array of horses. Surely, with all this room, he'd be allowed to breed stock as he had at home. Once in the stableyard, though, he groaned; they'd seen him coming. Every groom, every stableman, even the boys still clutching their polish rags stood in ragged lines awaiting him, caps in hand. A grizzled old man in riding master's boots bowed. "Welcome, Yer Highness," he said in a thick Far Isles accent. The workers all put knuckles to foreheads.

  Indoors, Temmin was used to a modicum of deference, but not in stables. He mucked out stalls, toted hay bales, polished tack, and curried Jebby himself; he'd always been one of the men, since he'd been a tiny boy darting among the horse's legs and bothering everyone. "If you'd like t'inspect the stables now, sir?" said the old man. "I yam the riding master, by name Cappel, sir." The hands looked to Temmin, faces nervous and expectant.

  After an astonished pause to gather his wits, Temmin said, "I'm just here to ride my horse. I do want to see the stables, but not this morning." The men and boys deflated. "Unless--unless you've gone to some effort?"

  "Aye, well, sir," murmured Cappel, "they been cleanin' fer the last week, sir."

  "Ah," Temmin murmured in return. He spoke up louder. "Ehm...I'll take a turn round these fine-looking stables after all." The stablemen brightened. "But one thing." They leaned forward, waiting as if for a command. "I'm just here to take care of the horses, and you're just here to take care of the horses, so let's all take care of the horses, yes?" No one moved until Temmin thought to say, "Ehm, dismissed?" Satisfied, the men and boys tou
ched their knuckles to their foreheads again, put their caps on their heads, and stumped off to their chores.

  They stopped first at Amma's shrine in the main courtyard. Temmin poured the sweet wine he'd brought over the altar stone and made Her sign: he touched his head, heart and groin, and murmured "Merciful Amma, keep me from harm," then tucked the birch bark prayer under the stone. Proper obeisance to the Lady of Cattle made, he let Cappel hustle him through the huge complex, the men's eyes following them; Temmin made sure to exclaim at how clean it all was.

  In the royal family's personal stable, Jebby filled the last stall. The chestnut gelding whickered. Temmin pulled a sugar cube from his pocket and held it up for the big horse, who lipped it into his mouth. Jebby turned his head sideways and stared, one-eyed, until Temmin took an apple from his other pocket and cut it in half. "Greedy guts," said Temmin as the horse munched.

  He turned to see Cappel lugging an immaculate saddle from the tack room. "Ah, I'll take that!" said Temmin, reaching for it.

  "I yam not s'old as all that," said Cappel. "And that's no work for such as you, sir."

  Cappel's age had not occurred to the young Prince. "I'm used to doing for myself, though," said Temmin.

  The riding master squinted at him. "That's as may be, but my men and I have our pride, sir. Let us do our jobs, and you do yours. Our jobs is carin for the horses, and yours is bein a prince, sir. But," he amended, observing Temmin's dumbfounded expression, "why don't you, just this once." He leaned against the stable wall, and watched as Temmin displayed his mastery of tack. "Eh, aye," he admitted, "you know your way around a horse. T'will be our pleasure to look after you, sir."

  Look after him? Temmin looked after himself in stables, he huffed to himself as he rode Jebby out of the yard. He didn't order people around. If he did, they paid no attention. What was the point? Stablehands treating him like an outsider. He didn't like the Keep.

  He and Jebby came to the great War Road leading into the King's Woods; six men could ride abreast down it, and had done so when Tremont's military campaigns departed from the Keep long ago. Jebby danced in place, until Temmin stuffed his cap back in his pocket, tapped his heels into the big horse's sides, and yelled "Gidyap, Jeb!" The chestnut took off down the Road, ecstatic to stretch his legs.