by Melanie Rawn
“You’re not peeved with me, so don’t pretend. Vered Goldbraider wants people to think. Rauel Kevelock, he wants them to feel. But Cayden Silversun wants them to make their own choices.”
A little while later, Cade said abruptly, “We never used the thorn, that second night out.”
“Sorry for that. I can send some along with you home, if you like.”
“Beholden. I keep meaning to ask. How did you first find—I mean, when did you begin—?”
“I was about thirteen, fourteen. Shocked? Don’t be. Fa had a name for me. Little Lord Ascian, the one without a shadow, because I never stood still long enough for the sunlight to catch me.” He smiled and shook his head. “I drove poor Mum stark staring mad. We couldn’t afford a physicker, but they took me to one anyways, and he said I was just contrary enough to warrant a contrary type of remedy. Bluethorn.”
“But—doesn’t bluethorn—?”
“Yeh, I know. More energy? But it worked. ’Twas only now and then, just when I got really outrageous. It lets me concentrate, if you can credit it. By then it was past hoping it’d do me any good in school, of course. I knew what I wanted to be, though, and it took me through lessons in glisking.”
“I’m not understanding. How can something that quickens the way bluethorn does let you focus on fewer than a thousand thoughts at once?”
“You know better than to ask me how or why something works,” he chided. “For me, it’s enough that it does.”
Cade seemed to think this over, then said, “The rest of you catches up with your brain, is that it? Like catching the current in the river and going along with it, instead of trying to fight it all the time.”
Mieka shrugged. “Could be.”
When the ship’s bell rang the hour, they both flinched.
“It’s late,” Cade muttered. “And chilly.”
“Just a while longer, Quill, please. I’ll be wakeful half the night anyways.”
So they stayed, and before the next bell the captain shifted their course, and the moonglade was behind them. Far off, just visible as lights like stars floating in formation on the sea, the Princess’s ship slid into view.
“I wager she doesn’t sleep much tonight, either,” Mieka said.
“Who? Oh—the Princess.”
“Well, and Lady Vrennerie, too.” He glanced up and sideways, and could barely make out Cade’s forceful profile. “You’ve decided about her, haven’t you? Don’t tell me it’s her decision to make. You could have her if you want her. The ways she looks at you—and you do want her, Cayden.”
“Not enough.”
“You won’t let yourself.”
“Leave it be, Mieka.”
Warning in that tone, and in the rigidity of his muscles. “I think you’re wrong.”
“And I think you don’t have the first fucking clue what you’re talking about.” He pushed away from the railing.
Mieka caught at his arm. “I’m sorry, Quill—truly, I’m sorry. Don’t be cross with me.”
Thin shoulders slumped a bit. “I’m not. I’m angry with myself—well, and with you, too, for being right. Come on, it really is cold up here.”
* * *
It felt to Mieka as if he’d only just closed his eyes to sleep when shouts and cheers and the booming of cannon woke him. After bumping his head on the ceiling for what he swore would be the very last time, he scrambled out of bed and bumped into Cayden. They washed quickly, dressed, and were up on deck to see a magnificent sight: hundreds and hundreds of boats, all come out to welcome the new Princess home. Sailboats of every size, rowboats, fishing trawlers, pleasure barges, anything that plied the Gally below the Plume or ventured out to sea, they swarmed like bees at the river’s mouth and set the captains of the King’s ships to frantic lowering of sails lest they plow right into the jostle.
Mieka laughed, and waved at the people crowded onto the boats, and felt his heart stutter with the thought that mayhap she might—but no, her mother would never allow—
And then they were at the docks, and completely ignored for the other ship, and he danced impatiently at the railing and squinted into the welcoming throng. Surely her mother would let her come to greet him, surely she would plead and beg that she had to see him as soon as may be, she simply had to see him—
He caught sight of his family: the tall figures of his eldest brothers, Jezael with Tavier on his shoulders, Jedris with a protective arm around Blye, who was barely visible beside Mum and Fa and Jinsie. For a moment he was surprised that he’d never before thought of Blye as family, but now of course she was—and then the warmth iced over as he saw his twin sister and wanted to strangle her for her interference in his life, for wanting to make his choices for him. He found Rafe’s parents nearby, with Mistress Bowbender, but no Crisiant, and that worried him. Nobody expected Cayden’s parents to come welcome him home, but Derien had evidently hitched a ride with Jed and Blye, for there he was, right out front, jumping up and down and waving both arms.
No, wait—Crisiant was there, just hidden briefly by Petrinka and Cilka. She looked … thinner. All at once Mieka knew what had happened, and turned to Rafe in anguish. The fettler had seen, too, and understood; he rubbed both hands over his face and beard, then shook back his hair and pasted on a smile.
Mieka tugged at Cade’s arm, and tiptoed to whisper, “Crisiant lost the baby.” Cade stared down at him, shocked. “Do we say anything?”
“Is there anything to say? Take up your cue from her and Rafe.”
Elsewhere there were trumpets and shoutings, and royal ceremonies, and uniformed guardsmen queued up in bright array. When he finally set foot on the dock, Mieka fell into his parents’ embrace, hugged Blye, pretended Jinsie didn’t exist, and before he knew it, they were all in hire-hacks going home to Wistly Hall.
All of them, including Cade and Dery, Jeska and his mother, and the four Threadchasers. Mistress Mirdley, he was told, was there supervising the come-home feast. The only thing Mieka wanted to do was catch the next public coach to Frimham—after he murdered Jinsie, of course—but for the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening he was trapped.
Aware that this was not a gracious way of looking at things, he exerted himself to be his usual self. Only Cade seemed to know what the effort entailed; every so often Mieka caught a wry, sympathetic glance from gray eyes. But this was his family all round him. He couldn’t disappoint them—not just the Windthistles and Blye (who’d become family long before she married Jed, he realized all at once), but Cade, Dery, Mistress Mirdley, Jeska and his mother, Rafe’s parents—and he hurt anew for Rafe and Crisiant’s loss every time he looked at them. They relied on him, all of them did, to tell the best stories and make the funniest jokes. It was his responsibility to them as surely as it was his responsibility to be the best glisker in the world for Touchstone. There was food and drink to be shared, and presents to be found and opened and exclaimed over, and if anybody noticed that he’d brought absolutely nothing home for Jinsie, it was lost in the tale of how he’d acquired the carpet.
His father and siblings roared with laughter. His mother covered her face with her hands. Mieka glossed over the tricky bits, making the barkeeper rude instead of threatening, leaving out entirely their flight from the tavern and Cade’s curtain of magical fire. He caught a searching glance from Blye, and promised himself he’d tell her the whole of it some other time. But for now he had to be Mieka—clever and mad, as she’d called it—and he’d had years of practice at playing fast and loose with the truth if it made for a better story. Or, of course, if it kept him out of trouble.
He slipped only once. Cade had atoned for Mieka’s neglect by giving Jinsie a beautiful beaded coinbag. She was nearly in tears when she saw it, and cast Mieka a look of furious hurt before flinging her arms around Cade’s neck and kissing him on both cheeks. The subsequent teasing might have embarrassed everyone, except that right then Rafe called for Tavier’s attention and asked if he still had any interest in a dragon�
��s egg.
Gods only knew when or where he’d found it. He’d said nothing to Mieka. It turned out to be a fat oval of tin painted white, invisibly hinged on the inside. Open, it revealed a tiny pottery dragon, crimson wings spread, talons touched with silver.
“I couldn’t find a real one,” Rafe apologized. “But I hope this will do until I can.”
Tavier nodded solemnly and put his small arms around as much of Rafe as he could, and hugged tight. Again Mieka was heartsick, realizing how wonderful a father Rafe would be, and what he and Crisiant had lost.
Shortly thereafter the party began to break up. It was still light outside by the time the last hire-hacks departed Wistly, but much too late for the last coach to Frimham. After waving farewell to Cade and Dery and Mistress Mirdley, Mieka took a bottle and glass out to the back lawn and sat in the least rickety of the garden chairs. He’d been there, watching the late afternoon traffic on the river, for only a few minutes before he heard his twin’s voice behind him.
“You’re a right shit-head, and well you know it,” Jinsie told him, and plunked down onto the grass with her back to him. She was fingering the beadwork on the bag Cade had given her.
“Shit-head? Look in the mirror,” he retorted. “I know what happened to my letters.”
“Cade said. He even tried to apologize for you.” She snorted. “Much good any of it did me, so I’ll only say this once and have done with it. I don’t like her.”
“I don’t care.”
“If you’re fool enough to ask her, and she’s fool enough to have you, I still won’t like her, and I won’t pretend to.”
“Did you go deaf while I was gone? I just said I don’t fucking care!”
“But as it seems you’re determined to marry her, and you’ll find this out soon enough, I’ll tell you. Her mother took work at the Palace, making gowns for Princess Iamina. They have lodgings—”
“Didn’t Mum and Fa ask them to stay here?” he demanded.
“They did, and were refused. As I was saying, they have lodgings over in the Hestings, round a couple of corners from the Palace.” She turned her head, adding viciously, “And just up the block from the Guards’ barracks. I’m sure she finds it convenient.”
His chest clenched so tight that he couldn’t breathe.
“I assume,” she finished, “you’ll want to hurry over there right now for a dog’s match.”
They hadn’t fought it out with their fists since they were twelve years old. Mum had raged while she took care of bruises and black eyes; Fa had told him later, very solemnly, that he wasn’t a child anymore and any man who hit a woman was no man at all. Thus Mieka settled for kicking his chair over as he stood up.
“Don’t ever speak to me again.”
“Mieka—”
“Ever!” And he ran back up to the house.
* * *
“No, sorry, never met them.”
“What’s that name again, lad? Plenty of seamstresses hereabouts. After all, so many fine ladies to keep in petticoats and silk underdrawers!”
“Dunno. Don’t much care.”
“Hells, boy, do I look that stupid? If I knew a girl that pretty, I’d be keeping her for meself!”
It was growing dark and Mieka still had not identified which amongst all the grace-and-favor flats was the right one. He didn’t even know which building. There were half a dozen of the five-story structures, made of leftover brick and stone from various Palace expansions, arranged around a central square, where lesser servants (he winced at the very notion) were allowed to live rent-free. Their pay was accordingly reduced. Free lodging and the distinction of serving the Royals and their retinues was considered recompense enough.
At first he’d asked using their name. Considering that each building had at least twenty flats of varying sizes, odds were that unless he happened upon one of their near neighbors in the street he’d never find them at all. So then he tried a reference to her mother’s profession. No help there, either. A single attempt at a verbal sketch of her produced chortling mockery. (Well, mayhap he’d been a bit lyrical in his description.) At last he stood in the little square of summer-parched lawn, furious and frustrated. There were people all round him and none of them was the right one. He couldn’t have felt more alone and foreign if he’d been back on the Continent surrounded by those whose language he didn’t speak and whose eyes unerringly found his ears and whose prejudices instantly judged him dangerous. Soon the Elf-light in the streetlamps would ignite, and he was about to make a complete fool of himself by standing in the square yelling her surname when he saw her mother coming round the corner from the Palace.
“You!” she exclaimed as he skidded to a stop in front of her. “What are you doing here?”
“Me? What about you? Leaving her all alone in the flat all day—are you insane?”
“Who says she’s alone?”
Staring into her smirking face, for the second time that day he came close to striking a woman. If he’d had Cade’s talents and Wizardly training, he would have incinerated the old bitch on the spot.
“You’ve a nerve, you have, coming round after all this time!” Shouldering past him, she gasped when he grabbed her arm to stop her. “Leave be! I’ll call the constables, I will!”
“Where is she? Who’s she with?”
“And why should I tell you a single word of it? Vanished, didn’t you, for months, gadding about all the way across the sea, off with your playmates, all whiskey and wine, while we’re here scrabbling to make ends meet! Never a thought to her, never a word—”
“I—my letters—”
“Oh, and dozens of them there were, too! Meantimes she’s crying her eyes out every night, no matter that I’m telling her over and again that I knew you were no good, no use, just a pretty little boy who doesn’t know how to be a man—”
“Tell me where she is!” he bellowed.
A small crowd had gathered by now, attracted by this very public entertainment. It wasn’t the sort of show he was used to giving, and not the way he liked being watched. It was too … honest. He didn’t know what to do. Jeska would have held his temper and charmed the old woman and been invited in for tea. Rafe would simply have stared her down with those cool blue-gray eyes until she wilted. Cayden—oh, Cayden would never demean himself by shouting in the street to provide a scandal and a relishing for the neighbors, but then again, Cayden didn’t have the balls to go after the girl he wanted, either.
“Tell me,” Mieka said at last, trying to control himself and failing. “Tell me, or I’ll rip down every fucking door from here to the Palace—”
“Mieka! Oh, Mieka!”
It was everything he wanted to hear in the only voice he wanted to hear: startled delight, longing, eagerness, giddy excitement. He spun on one heel.
The man by her side was an off-duty guardsman. The stiff brush-cut of his hair, the height, the square-shouldered bearing, all were familiar to Mieka from providing these things, plus uniform, for Jeska onstage. Handsome in a sun-browned, carroty-haired way, he was frowning and he dared clasp his hand about her waist.
The guardsman was almost a foot taller and at least sixty pounds heavier, and Mieka went for him with both fists. He even landed a punch, right in the man’s rock-solid stomach, before a clip to the side of his head sent him reeling. He was stupid enough, enraged enough, to go back for more. He kicked and connected, and the guardsman staggered back, clutching his groin, before opening his mouth in a roar that rattled the glass streetlamps. A moment later, Mieka was on the ground with no very clear notion of how he’d got there until the agony began in his belly.
“Stop it—oh, please, stop!” She knelt beside him, hands fluttering over his face, his shoulders.
“Sniveling little Elf! Get up and take it!”
Mieka stumbled to his feet. She stood in front of him, weeping, and he pushed her aside.
“She’s my girl now, Elferboy,” the guardsman taunted.
“No, I never—
Mieka, please!”
He’d never been much good at Elfenfire. The blood smearing his vision wasn’t helping. Nothing so disciplined as actual thought directed the sudden ragged sheet of yellow-gold light that rippled in the air between him and the guardsman. Someone screamed.
“I’ll have the law on you!”
Mieka’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Big strapping guardsman like you, scared of a bit of magic?”
The water-blue gaze regarded him with revulsion before shifting towards her. “She ain’t worth it,” he announced, and took himself and the remnants of his dignity off to the Palace.
Abruptly exhausted, and understanding why Cayden had been so knackered after a similar demonstration, Mieka let the pale glitter fade—or, more precisely, he watched it flicker and die. Using the magic inside a withie, and using that withie to focus that magic, was one thing. Creating it all on his own was quite another.
“Mieka—”
He turned slowly, wiping blood from his eyelids and cheeks. “It’s not true, is it?” he whispered. “You’re not—?”
“Never! It’s only—I didn’t hear and didn’t hear and I didn’t know where you were until Mum saw in the broadsheet about Touchstone—I had to, Mieka, I had to write on the chance you’d get my letter and—”
“I’ve been out of my mind with worrying—”
“Tell me you still love me, please tell me you still love me—”
“Love you?” He caught her close in his arms and covered her face with kisses.
And then a roar of applause and a shrilling of whistles reminded him that they had an audience. A shouting match, a brief fistfight, a display of magic, and now a lovers’ reunion: this was better than paying to see a play. They’d talk about it for weeks.
“Where can we go?” he asked urgently.
“Our flat—”
“You can’t take him up there!” her mother cried. “It’s not decent for a young girl to—”
“You!” Mieka yelled. “Shut it and stay out!”
She folded her arms and glowered. At the entryway of their building, he glanced back and caught a look of smug satisfaction on her face.
