"Nonsense. This is not your fault. I fear for Innah, though. We must be sure she is well."
"It was my suggestion to visit the dressmaker--"
Azmei cut her off. "And it was a reasonable suggestion. No, Guira, I will not allow you to blame yourself. I am unhurt. Sennal will recover."
"He may never walk straight again," Guira murmured.
Azmei swallowed. "A risk he understood when he became a royal guard," she said. "Come, I do not blame you. You must not blame yourself."
Guira was smiling tremulously when a man's voice said, "Your highness?"
Azmei turned. It was the guard she had sent to the carriage. "My lady, you threw this at the attacker," he murmured, holding it out. "I fear it is somewhat worse for wear."
"Oh." Azmei stared down at the book. The wrapping had torn and several of the pages were bent at the corner. Worst of all, the entire front cover was bloody. "I--Thank you, guardsman." She took the book from him. It suddenly seemed much heavier than it had. She stared down at the scarlet cover. She couldn't tell how much of the color was from dye and how much from blood.
"Go back to Sumina's," she told Guira. "I can't give this one to Prince Vistaren." Her hands were shaking. She wiped the cover, smearing red across her fingers, but the blood had soaked into the leather; wiping it did nothing to clean it.
"Which of the three colors would you like?" Guira, Gods bless her, had recovered from her self-recrimination. Azmei had need of her, and Guira would answer.
"I don't care!" Azmei snapped. Her eyes stung. "Wait, no. The blue. Buy the blue. Amethirians love the sea, don't they? He'll like that."
Guira curtsied and hurried off, two soldiers following close behind.
"They tried to kill her!" Razem shouted. "Father, you cannot send her away! What might happen to her when she is out of Tamnen?"
"I am standing right here," Azmei pointed out. "Do you care what I want?"
Razem turned on her. "Shut up!"
King Marsede pressed his fingertips together. He was a calm man, slow to wrath. "And if I keep her here? Would you have us anger the Amethirians as well as the Strid? We cannot afford another enemy."
"The dressmaker won't talk," Razem said. He wheeled and paced away. "Did you know that? She remains silent in the face of everything I threaten her with."
"I will not allow her to be tortured," Marsede said. "She will be punished. Perhaps she will pay with her life. But I will not have her tortured beforehand. That is what makes us different from the Strid."
Razem halted. Azmei saw a dark flush creep up his neck. "I--I wasn't suggesting torture," he muttered.
Marsede sighed. "Razem, I understand your anger. I, too, am angry. And I am afraid." He stood and went to stand in front of his son. Azmei had never realized how much alike they looked. "I am afraid of losing my daughter, who is precious to me."
"Do you truly believe the Amethirians can protect her?"
"Have we done so well ourselves?" Marsede's smile was rueful. "We knew there would be those opposed to the idea of peace. There is so much hatred. There have been too many years of war. An entire generation has grown up without their parents." The king bowed his head.
Azmei knew he had won the argument when Razem's hands came up to grip their father's arms. But Marsede didn't stop speaking.
"I would have peace. I cannot give the Kreyden District away, for we all know the Strid would kill everyone of Tamnese descent if we surrendered the district. The Strid care only for the mines and other resources. But I cannot continue this war. It will beggar our nation and embitter another generation. I cannot leave that as my legacy."
Azmei went to put her hand on her father's shoulder. "Enough, Father," she said, keeping her voice soft. "I am marrying Prince Vistaren of my own free will. Of course none of us wish it. I don't wish to be parted from you and Razem. But I am Princess of Tamnen, and my duty is clear." She glanced sharply at her brother. "Razem is done arguing."
Razem glared back at her, but Marsede, head still bowed, didn't see it. "Of course I am," Razem said, matching Azmei's tone. "I'm sorry, Father."
Azmei allowed the silence to continue for several heartbeats while she tried to think of something to say. When inspiration refused to speak, she said, "Come, Father, Razem. I believe tonight is the perfect night to open my bottle of birth wine. We can celebrate twice over my being alive."
"I packed it with the other volume of Tamnese history," Guira said, an edge to her voice.
Azmei yanked a dress out of the trunk and tossed it aside. "It isn't in there. I looked."
"I had to take out the rose silk to fit the Tamnese history in. Why you're taking so many books, I don't know. You have more books than you can read on such a short voyage." Guira scooped up the dress and smoothed out the fabric. "Reading so much will make you seasick," she added darkly.
"I need both volumes! I won't have my children growing up in a foreign country with no knowledge of my country's history." Azmei could hear the tears in her voice and took a deep breath. This isn't you, she told herself.
"It's a bit early to think about that." Guira slipped the dress back into the trunk. "And I am certain even Amethirian booksellers have Tamnese history books."
Azmei drew in another deep breath through her nose. "Don't tease. I just need my books, Guira, not someone else's." She went back to the first trunk and tugged out another dress. There was the book in question. The Birth of Tam and the Founding of Tamnen City. Nestled next to it was From the God-Wars to the Great Slumber.
Behind her, Guira sighed. "I shall begin repacking."
"What about the love poems of Hafana?"
Guira expelled a heavier sigh. "I believe they are hiding under your pillow, where you pretend not to like them. Do you wish me to pack that volume, as well?"
Azmei growled wordlessly at her and stomped off to her bed.
By the time Azmei's father and brother accompanied her and Guira (along with a dozen of their most elite bodyguards) to the Victorious, she was heartily sick of packing and looking forward to a fortnight of monotony at sea.
Not that Azmei expected to be bored. She had dozens of books she would probably not have time for in a small chest along with her writing kit and jewelry. Her plan was to spend as much time as possible completing work on her betrothal gift for Prince Vistaren.
She and her father had a silent parting. They had already said what needed to be said. Anyway, Azmei wasn't sure she could force anything out past the lump in her throat. She flung her arms around her father, who held her tightly and sighed against her hair. When she pulled away, her cheeks were wet, and she saw the glitter in his own eyes.
Razem was more violent in his farewell. He lingered until the captain was shouting for any last passengers to hurry their sorry selves up and quit making the princess wait. Razem didn't speak, but huffed and fumed like a volcano. Finally he seized her in a tight hug.
"Remember, little sister, if you don't like him, you needn’t marry him. And if he treats you ill, I shall kill him for it."
She let out a breathless laugh. "After all the trouble Father and the Ranarri Diplomats went to securing the treaty, he will have to be fundamentally flawed indeed for me to reject him." She pulled away and gripped his elbows, staring up into his face. "Nay, Razem. You have always protected me. Now it is time to allow me to protect you."
"But to do it by selling you--" He cut himself off, turning his head and staring out to sea. "I love you, Az. You had better write to me often."
"I shall. I promise." She gripped his forearm. "And you--be careful. Don't go to Kreyden trying to win the war while I'm busy trying to stop it entirely."
"I won't stand idly by while Anderlin of Strid murders our people and ravages our land, Azmei." His voice was hard.
"Nor do I ask you to." She straightened, lifting her chin to stare up at him. "But I ask you to remember that you have an obligation to live for our kingdom. And for me." She gave him a crooked smile. "As a wedding gift, promise me.
"
Razem gave a curt nod. "I'll be careful. And I won't start any fights. I give you my word."
Without so much as a backwards glance, Razem strode away, his boots loud even through the clamor on deck. Everyone paused minutely in their work to watch him pass.
Azmei watched the sailors cast off, trying to pinpoint how she felt. Not brittle, exactly, but as if she were a minstrel's puppet strung but loosely together. "But though my duties pull those strings, I will choose how I dance," she muttered. She straightened her back and folded her arms about herself, cupping her elbows in the opposite hands.
Perhaps Vistaren would understand her better than she feared. Hadn't he responded to her first letter with as much courtesy and curiosity as she could have hoped for? And subsequent letters had shown his keen grasp of the conflict between Tamnen and Strid. He had frankly acknowledged how little they knew each other and how, left to their own choices, they would likely choose others to wed. He seemed an honest, yet kind, man. She hoped he turned out to be the man he seemed.
Azmei listened to the captain calling orders and the ragged chorus of the sailors repeating each order as they obeyed. The harbor side slipped past, and Azmei was seized by a sudden need to memorize each detail of the city she loved. What if this was the last time she saw the city before her wedding? If she and Vistaren ratified the marriage agreement, they could be married at any time, and it could be years before she returned here...and when she did, it would be home no longer.
Blinking at the stinging of her eyes, Azmei gazed at the harbor front markets, the warehouses, the sanctuary spires that rose above all other buildings. No matter what came, Azmei must remember for whom, for what, she did this.
PART TWO - THE VICTORIOUS
CHAPTER THREE
Princess Azmei obviously loved her brother. Orya had observed them together at the departure ball, and she had noted then how Azmei talked about Razem. There was a bond between them, and it was one of the things that intrigued Orya. Orya's relationship with her own brother was very different. She loved him, yes, but it was as much out of obligation as true affection.
There were other qualities, like the willingness Azmei displayed to do her duty to her family, or the princess' self-deprecating manner. In another person--in someone of the Perslyn family, for instance--it would seem only disingenuous, but with Azmei, it was genuine. That ought to make Orya hate her, but she was drawn to her instead.
It was an odd feeling, being fascinated by and jealous of someone all at once. Orya sighed.
Wenda looked up from her sewing. "Cousin, is anything amiss?" Her broad face wrinkled in concern.
Orya forced a smile. "No, not really. I tire of my book, though. Set aside your sewing, Wenda. We can play cards and open a bottle of wine."
Wenda's brows furrowed for a long moment, but eventually she smiled. "Very well. I shall have time to work tomorrow." Her lips curved. "Or yet tonight, should you bore of beating me." She secured her needle in the cloth and folded her work carefully. "I am not very good at Queens or Ship's Trade, and I know those are the games you favor."
"Nonsense. I am sure you only say that so I'll be shocked at how much money you win from me." Orya tossed her book aside. She stood and went to retrieve the bottle of wine, annoyed that Wenda's crippled foot made her so unsuitable a servant.
You don't get angry at Yarro for being different, she reminded herself, returning to thoughts of her brother. Everyone else, it seemed, did, but how could Orya? She had almost raised him after their mother's suspicious death. And though it was rare that he could stand so much human contact as to snuggle with her, the fact remained, she was the only one he permitted such familiarity. And she alone had ever been on the receiving end of his smile.
But Yarro was able-bodied and willing. He just saw the world and interacted with it differently. In another family, he might have been lauded as an augur. He certainly had some of the odd behaviors the augurs displayed; he often seemed to stare inward, and he sometimes made declarations with such authority Orya believed him, even if it was something he should know nothing about. And then there were the trances...
Orya ran her knife through the wax and uncorked the bottle, pouring each of them a generous glass. It wasn't an expensive wine, but it was good nonetheless; had Wenda ever tasted anything like it? It was occurring to Orya that she knew little of how the girl had lived her life. Their areas of training were so far removed from one another as to be two separate trades. Perhaps it was time for Orya to correct that lack in her knowledge.
She smiled as she carried the glasses back to the sitting area. Wenda was already shuffling the cards, her fingers nimble. Shame on you, Orya thought. You let yourself believe that crippled foot meant all of her was deficient. She should have known better than to make such an error. A merchant could never underestimate those around her, or she might lose the upper hand in her dealings. Observation had been an important aspect of her training, and she had neglected to apply it to those closest her.
"What shall it be, cousin?" Wenda asked. "Ship's Trade?" Her fingers paused, sliding unconsciously along the curved corners of the cards.
"Queens, I think," Orya said. It was less competitive, and she wished to observe her cousin as they talked over their cards.
Wenda nodded and dealt them each four cards to act as a queen and three knights. She placed the rest of the deck face down on the table.
Orya inspected her cards. A moon warrioress, two cups, and a shield. It was a decent hand, but nothing remarkable. "Tell me, cousin, what was it like, growing up in the Kreyden?" She pursed her lips and, reluctantly, set aside the shield. It would be held in reserve, rather than sacrificed outright, but only if she drew a lower card of the same suit.
Wenda fumbled and one of her cards fluttered to the tabletop. Orya forced herself not to glance at it. She was not above cheating at cards when it mattered, but this game did not. She selected her new card and studied it as if Wenda's response were inconsequential.
"How--I--I did not know the patriarch had told you that," Wenda said. She sipped her wine and dabbed a napkin at her lower lip. "Parts of the Kreyden are still very beautiful. There are fertile fields of gold, with green hills above." She didn't have to say she missed it; longing laced through every word.
The patriarch hadn't told Orya anything about Wenda--it was the way she pronounced words like cousin and work--but she didn't bother correcting her cousin. It wouldn't hurt for Wenda to believe the patriarch trusted Orya more than he did her. It couldn't be further from the truth--he expected his granddaughter to outstrip all the others, and even when she did, he was displeased. But cruelty had been directed at Orya many times because she was seen as the darling of their instructors. Subtle bruises and sly pinches had driven that knowledge deep when she was a child.
"I have never seen the disputed lands." Orya watched as Wenda set aside a card and drew, grimaced, and discarded a low-ranked crown. She blinked; Wenda's hand must be far superior to hers if she was discarding crowns. "I was never allowed to leave Meekin until my apprenticeship was finished. Hateful city, with its canals and fountains."
Wenda laughed, her shoulders relaxing. "And I wouldn't know, because I've only seen Meekin in passing. We took a canal boat to the capital when I came to join you."
Orya set aside another card and drew again. "I hate canal boats. They're so slow. And the insects! Give me the open sea any day. But do the waves not trouble you?"
Wenda shrugged. "Not much. I am used to pitching about unsteadily, after all." Her lips twitched as she waved at her foot, but she didn't actually smile until Orya laughed. Wenda and Yarro were nothing alike, really, despite the fact they were both different from normal. Orya rarely had actual conversations with Yarro the way she was having with Wenda. But something about Wenda reminded Orya of her youngest brother. It was almost comforting.
Someone knocked on the door. Wenda jumped, but Orya merely folded her cards into a stack and went to answer the knock.
&nbs
p; Princess Azmei's handmaid was at the door.
"Lady Orya?" The woman was tall and bony, with graying dark hair. Orya didn't like handmaids with sharp eyes. "The princess invites you to dine in her cabin with her this evening."
Orya curtsied deeply. "I would be honored. When shall I attend her highness?"
The woman sniffed. What was her name again? Orya knew she had been with the princess more than a decade, but couldn't remember her name. Geesa? Garia? Something like that.
"At the next bell, if you please," the woman said.
Guira, that was it. Orya smiled and saw the woman relax a bit. "Thank you, Guira," she said, and that softened the woman a bit more. Good. It never hurt to have the servants on your side, even if inwardly you couldn't care less for a mouse's fart than for them. And Orya was never one to turn away an advantage.
Guira left and Orya closed the door, turning away from it. "I am afraid our game is being cut short," she informed her cousin. "I am to dine with the princess."
It was almost embarrassing the way Wenda's eyes lit up. "Oh, how lovely for you, Orya! You will have such fun! And to have won the princess' approval! My trademistress was right when she said I would learn a great deal from you."
Orya shrugged. "Come and help me dress, if you want," she said carelessly, "and we can keep talking."
Azmei chewed the end of her pen, frowning. Rona was kissing Fann's forehead. She absolutely knew there were no other ways to translate that word. A kiss on the forehead could be a blessing, so it could be that her brothers-in-arms approach to the interpretation was safe. But then again, it could be a kiss. She growled and shoved the book away from her.
It wasn't as if it bothered her to think Rona and Fann might have been lovers. Well, in one respect it did, because Rona was married to Aevver, daughter of the sea king, and that was a nasty thing to do if you were already in love with your best friend. But the notion that two of Amethir's heroes may have been same-lovers didn't bother her. It was uncommon in Tamnen, to be sure, and the priests preferred it be done in secret, or at least kept private, but it wasn't actually taboo. And in Ranarr and Amethir, she knew, it was openly accepted. Even celebrated among some ethnicities.
Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2) Page 3
