The letters from Dawson, however, were worrying.
They came almost twice a week. Often, but not with the regularity that left her worried if one was late. He related few solid facts to her—she might be his wife, but she wasn’t on the war council—relying more on general statements and impressions. With every new victory, he seemed a bit more angry. Often he would meditate upon the political and filial connections Antea had with Asterilhold; like two fighting brothers, he said. Also, his opinion of foreigners, which God knew had never tended toward charity, was darker than ever. She felt, reading his words, as if he were writing the messages more to himself than to her. Perhaps the ghost of Simeon was riding with him, even if it was only as a metaphor.
The other notable shift in the life of the court was the growing popularity of Geder Palliako’s private priesthood. After he’d celebrated his victory over Maas by founding a temple, there had been a certain morbid curiosity among the court. Then, after he’d become regent, the courtiers had descended on the place, looking for new ways to curry favor. But even beyond that, there seemed to be a growing interest for the temple in its own right. She wasn’t sure yet what she thought of that, but she was hesitant to go without talking to Dawson about it. Better to judge his mood first and then decide whether broadening her piety was worth the effort.
With the road to Kaltfel open and the armies of Asteril-hold struggling up from the southern marshlands, she expected Dawson home by midsummer. Sooner than that if the inevitable peace talks were held in Camnipol. And before that happened, she had an armistice of her own to negotiate.
Marriage had been good for Elisia. Clara would never have said it aloud, but her daughter had always seemed too thin growing up, sharp-featured and narrow-hipped. In truth, Elisia Kalliam had been a cruel girl. As with anyone living in the royal court—man or woman, boy or girl—Elisia had had her clique, and as an adolescent, she’d ruled it ruthlessly. Now she was Elisia Annerin, wife of Gorman Annerin. Her face and bust had a softness in them that made her look more her mother’s daughter. And she had hips, and thank God she had or birthing her son would have been even worse. There was confidence in her body, and an ease.
Sabiha, by contrast, seemed almost more tentative than she had during the courtship.
The three of them sat in the summer garden under the shade of a great catalpa. Clara, Elisia, Sabiha. The daughter she’d lost and the daughter she’d gained. The two girls—well, women now, really—looked at each other across the table with a brittle politeness that told Clara exactly how large the chasm was between them. From the little pond just beyond the rose bushes, little Corl Annerin, not yet five years old, shrieked with delight and was hushed by his nurse.
“I had the flux just before my thirteenth name day,” Sabiha said. “I still remember it. I thought I was going to die.”
“It is terrible,” Clara agreed. “But you seem to have recovered nicely, dear. I’m only sorry that you missed the wedding and of course the funeral so close after that. Odd how the world seems to pair things that way. Something pleasant right up against something awful.”
“God’s sense of humor, I suppose,” Elisia said. Her voice had changed a bit. Taken on the slightly clipped vowels of the eastern reaches where Antea shared its borders with Sarakal. “I’m glad Corl didn’t get it. When he was younger, he’d catch everything, and there is simply nothing worse than being ill with an ill child.”
Sabiha’s smile came from past the horizon.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“Of course not,” Elisia said, “but I imagine you will soon. New brides and all that. It was hardly a year after I was married before I had Corl.”
“I think it may take a bit longer for me,” Sabiha said. “Jorey’s gone so much with the war.”
Elisia made a sympathetic clucking, then shrugged.
“Still better too long than not long enough.”
Sabiha laughed and nodded as if the insult hadn’t struck home. There was hardly even a flicker in her eyes. Clara thought Jorey’s wife really was an impressive girl in her fashion.
“Oh!” Clara said. “I’ve forgotten my pipe. Honestly, I think my memory’s starting to fail. It did for my mother, you know. Spent her last years wandering about the house trying to recall what she was looking for. Perfectly amused by the whole situation, even when she was quite out of her mind. Did I have my pipe in your sitting room, Sabiha dear?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps your withdrawing room. Would you like me to go look for it?”
“Would you, dear? I don’t want the servants to think I’ve gone mindless on them. They start taking liberties.”
Sabiha rose, nodding to mother and daughter as if they weren’t all of them perfectly aware that Clara had asked for a moment’s privacy. As the girl stepped into the house, Clara let the mask of geniality fall. Elisia rolled her eyes.
“She isn’t my sister,” Elisia said even before Clara spoke. “I can’t believe you’ve let Jorey marry her. Really, Mother, what were you thinking?”
“Whatever I thought, her name is Kalliam now. Prodding her about dead scandals isn’t going to do any of us well. And you could at least pretend you were actually ill.”
“I have spent weeks defending you and Father to my husband and his family. Do you know what they call us? Kalliam’s shelter for lost girls. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Ashamed of your husband, I should think.”
Elisia’s mouth closed with an audible click. A loud splash came, and the nurse’s scolding voice. A breeze almost too gentle to feel set the rosebuds nodding. A few had already bloomed, white and orange. Clara had always preferred simple roses with two or three rows of petals to the grand and gaudy balls that others seemed to favor. She took a deep breath, gathering her composure before she turned back to Elisia.
“Family is what we have, dear,” Clara said. “There will always be others, people on the outside, who will try to tear us down. It’s not even their fault. Dogs bark, and people gossip. But we don’t do that in the family.”
“She is—”
“She is going to be mother to my grandchildren, as much as you, my dear. She has an unfortunate past which you and your husband are bringing to my table. She isn’t. You are. And I have never heard her say a word against either of you.”
Elisia’s mouth pressed thin and two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. Clara raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, inviting comment or reproof. It was the same pose she’d taken before Elisia since her daughter had been a child in diapers, and long training had its power.
“Excuse me a moment,” Elisia said. “I think Corl called for me.”
“I’m sure he did, dear,” Clara said. “I’ll wait here.”
Clara took up her cup. The tea had grown cold, but she drank it anyway. Children were difficult because they became their own people. There had been a time when Elisia had run to Clara with every scrape and hurt feeling, but that girl was gone, and this young woman had taken her place, and Clara would never say aloud that she wasn’t sure of the exchange.
Clara watched the footman trot out from the house. He was a new boy. Messin or Mertin or something along that line. She would have to find out discreetly. He wore his uniform well, though, and his voice was gentle.
“My lady, there’s a gentleman here to see you. Sir Curtin Issandrian.”
“Really?” Clara said. “How very brave of him.”
“Shall I show him out, my lady?”
“Out to the garden or out to the street, do you mean?” Clara said, then waved the question away. “Take him to my husband’s library. I’ll speak with him there. God knows what he’d hear if we brought him out among these women.”
“Yes, my lady,” the boy—Meanan, that was it—said. Clara sat a minute longer to give the servants time to guide Issandrian to the right place, then stood, straightened her dress, and sailed into the house. Elisia wouldn’t be speaking to her again until she’d calmed
down, and Sabiha was likely off crying somewhere private. Clara guessed a half hour’s audience wouldn’t leave too much opportunity for more unpleasantness.
Curtin Issandrian looked older with his hair cut short. Or perhaps it was that the last years bore down on him more heavily. There were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d come to her house. A different world, that had been.
“Lord Issandrian,” she said, stepping into the room.
“Baroness Osterling,” he said, making a formal bow.
“I hope you weren’t coming to meet with my husband,” Clara said. “He’s off leading the army at the moment.”
“I think everyone’s aware of your good husband’s successes in the field,” Issandrian said. “No, I came to speak with you. To ask you to intercede.”
Clara sat on her divan, and Issandrian sat across from her, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked desperately tired.
“I know your husband and I have been at odds on several occasions,” he said. “But I have never doubted that he was an honorable man, and loyal to crown and kingdom.”
“Very much so,” Clara said.
“And your sons are some of the most promising young men at court. Vicarian is a model student and well spoken of. Barriath and Jorey now are both allied with Lord Skestinin. And, of course, Jorey is considered by many to be the regent’s most trusted friend.”
Issandrian swallowed. Clara folded her hands together.
“Is this about what happened to Feldin Maas?” she asked. “No one has accused you of treason, my lord. You aren’t accused as he was, and really, the court isn’t such a large place. We are all connected to one another somehow. Poor Phelia was my own cousin, and certainly no one thinks that we were involved in Maas’s treachery.”
“All respect,” Issandrian said. “You and Phelia Maas were instrumental in stopping Maas. And Lord Regent Palliako. I didn’t have the good fortune to be part of those events.”
“I’m not entirely sure that watching one’s cousin cut down by her husband qualifies as good fortune,” Clara said coolly.
“I apologize. That came out poorly. I only meant that your loyalty to the crown was demonstrated. Unquestionable. I didn’t know of the depths of Maas’s plot until after the fact. And a loyalist and traitor say all the same words at that point.”
It was a fair analysis, but not one that asked Clara to do or say anything in particular, so she kept silent and waited. The moment stretched.
“Sir Alan Klin was another of my compatriots at that time,” Issandrian said. “He serves under your lord husband now. I haven’t been asked to serve. I was wondering… I was wondering if you might enquire on my behalf why that is.”
“This is a very convenient time to be asking why you are not on the field,” Clara said. “It would have spoken better of you to ask when victory was less certain.”
“I have written to the Lord Regent several times,” Issandrian said. “I haven’t yet received the courtesy of a reply.”
“I see.”
“We have disagreed profoundly on some issues, but your husband and I have always been loyal to the Severed Throne,” Issandrian said. “I didn’t want to bring Asterilhold into the conflict any more than he courted Northcoast. But like him, I wasn’t working alone. And I…”
“And you see Sir Klin being given the chance to redeem his name while you are kept in Camnipol,” Clara said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “I don’t take part in those decisions or discuss them with Dawson.”
“If you could ask… Just ask—”
“Sound out my husband on your behalf?” she asked with a smile. “Gather information and report it back to you? You can’t think that.”
Issandrian paled, and then chuckled ruefully.
“You make it sound more than it is,” he said.
“No, I only see the same thing from another angle,” she said. “I will tell my husband you came, and what we said. I will tell him you seemed sincere because you do. And if he wishes to converse with you about this, I won’t argue against it.”
“Baroness Osterling, I could ask nothing more.”
“You could ask,” she said. “But you couldn’t have it. And now I must ask that you go. I have family here.”
Issandrian practically sprang to his feet, his face and voice rich with apology.
“I hadn’t known that, my lady, or I wouldn’t have intruded. I owe you even greater thanks, it seems. If I can ever be of service to you, only let me know.”
“Lord Issandrian?” she said. He paused. “My husband hates you, but he respects you as well. It isn’t so bad a position to be in.”
Issandrian nodded soberly and made his exit. Clara walked back out toward the garden slowly. Her impression from Dawson’s letters was that Sir Klin wasn’t at all enjoying his time winning back his honor. And, in fact, that Palliako had gone out of his way to make the poor man’s time in the field as hellish as possible. She wondered whether she should write to Dawson about this or wait for his return.
In the garden, Elisia and the nurse were still by the pond, splashing and playing. Sabiha sat alone at the table. Clara’s pipe was in the girl’s hand.
“Where did you find it?” Clara asked, taking the little clay bowl and stem from the girl’s hand. There was already a hard wad of tobacco stuffed into it, ready for the fire.
“In your withdrawing room,” Sabiha said. “Just as you thought. I’ve been listening to your grandson. He’s a beautiful child.”
“He is. Takes after his mother that way. She was always a pretty child, even when she was growing half a hand a year and looked like a blade of grass come to life, she wore it well. And he doesn’t sleep any more than she did. I’ll tell you a secret. Watching your children struggle with the same things you did when they were babes is a grandmother’s revenge.”
Sabiha smiled. It wasn’t obvious that she’d been weeping. Only a little redness about the eyes and a tiny, fading blotchiness at the throat. The girl was lucky that way. Being able to hide tears was a gift. But now a fresh shining came to her. Clara pursed her lips.
“Sometimes,” Sabiha said, “and it isn’t often, but sometimes I think of how the world could have been if I hadn’t been Lord Skestinin’s daughter.”
“Ah, but you always were,” Clara said, trying to keep the girl from going down the path she was headed. The girl wouldn’t be turned.
“I know. It’s just there are freedoms women have when they aren’t what we are. There are struggles too, I understand that. But there are ways to shape a life even within those, and then maybe—”
“No,” Clara said.
Sabiha’s tears welled, but did not fall. Not yet.
“No,” Clara said again, more gently. “You can’t think of that child. You can’t even wish for him back. It isn’t fair to ask everyone else to forget and only you remember. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I miss him, though,” Sabiha whispered. “I can’t just stop missing him.”
“You can stop showing that you do. Jorey has risked a great deal to give you another life. Another beginning. If you didn’t want it, you should have refused him. Accepting him and also keeping hold of the past isn’t fair. And it isn’t wise.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabiha said, her voice thick. “He was my boy. I thought you would understand.”
“I do. And that’s why I’m saying this. Look up. Look at me. No, at me. Look at me. Yes.”
Sabiha swallowed, and Clara felt the beginnings of tears in her own eyes. There was a boy out there—a child—whose mother loved him enough to break her heart, and he would never know it. Perhaps it was fair to the girl. She’d at least made a decision, even if the punishment seemed too much for the lapse. But the child was blameless. He was blameless, and he would suffer, and Clara would do what she could to see that the estrangement between mother and son was permanent, and that Sabiha’s old sca
ndals were all kept in the past where they belonged. A tear tracked down Sabiha’s cheek, and Clara’s matched it.
“Good,” Clara said. “Now smile.”
Cithrin
The last Dragon Emperor slept before her. Each jade scale was as wide as her open palm. The eyelids were slit open enough to show a thin sliver of bronze eye. The folded wings were as long as the spars of a roundship. Longer. Cithrin tried to imagine the statue coming to life. Moving. Speaking in the languages that had made the world.
On one hand, the bulk and beauty and implicit physical power of the thing was humbling. The claws could have ripped a building apart. The mouth, had it opened, would have fit a steer. But size alone didn’t define it. The sculptor had also managed to capture a sense of the intellect and rage and despair in the shape of the dragon’s eyes and the angle of its flanks. Morade, the mad emperor against whom his clutch-mates had rebelled. Morade, whom Drakkis Storm-crow schemed against. Morade, whose death was the emancipation of all the races of humanity.
At her side, Lauro Medean scratched his arm.
“They say that the dragons could sleep as long as stone when they wanted to,” he said. “It was part of the war. The dragons would bury themselves or put themselves in deep caves. Hidden. And then when the armies had their back or flank, the dragons would spring back to life. Come boiling up out of the ground. Slaughter everybody.”
Komme Medean’s son was a year older than her, but he acted much younger. He shared his father’s brown skin and dark hair, and when she looked carefully, she could see where the young man’s face would broaden, his jowls sink, and he would look even more like Komme. She wondered how old a man had to be before gout took him. He smiled at her.
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