by Anne Logston
“Ria?” She could hear Cyril climbing the loft ladder now. “I know you’re here. No use hiding from me.”
We’ll see, Ria thought smugly. She almost gave herself away by giggling as Cyril stomped through the hay, once nearly stepping on her, prodding suspicious piles with his scabbard. Cyril knew better than to trust his eyes where Ria was concerned. Mice scattered through the hay, one running heedlessly over Ria’s leg. The tiny paws tickled unmercifully. Ria shook with stifled laughter, a burning ache starting in her chest from holding it in.
“Ria!” Cyril’s voice held a note of impatience now. His boots stopped right in front of the tiny peephole Ria had left in the hay. “Will you stop playing and come out? I need to talk to you.”
Ria waited until Cyril took the weight off one foot, preparing to step away. Suddenly she reached out and seized his ankle, pulling it out from under him, and Cyril roared indignantly as he tumbled into the hay. Ria leaped from her hiding place and jumped on top of Cyril, tickling him and stuffing hay down the front of his tunic until Cyril, laughing helplessly even as his face reddened with anger, finally flung her aside and scrambled back to his feet. The cracks between the rough-hewn wooden slabs of the barn walls were to Ria’s small fingers and toes as good as any ladder, and she fled up one wall, unmindful of spiders and splinters, and scrambled out onto one of the rafters where she perched, grinning down triumphantly at her foster brother.
“Will you be still and listen for one moment!” Cyril snapped, scowling upward furiously as he brushed hay and dust out of his golden hair. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Mother and Father about the lizard you stuck down the back of Lady Sivia’s gown.”
That sobered Ria. She’d be punished for her trick, no matter how the stout and pompous matron had invited it with her over-dignified stuffiness and courtly posturing. Lady Rivkah might even confine Ria to her rooms until the departure for Allanmere, and then Ria would lack even the poor diversion of watching the supplies being readied and the wagons loaded—let alone her favored pastime of pestering the guards and servants with tricks and endless questions. Life in Emaril’s keep was boring enough that any entertainment at all was precious, and the very thought of being penned up behind walls, unable to escape, made Ria shudder.
Ria sighed and settled herself resignedly on the rafter on her belly, hands under her chin, ankles crossed and knees hanging down on either side of the heavy wooden beam like one of the holding’s cats. Anything, even a lecture from her foster brother, was preferable to confinement.
“All right,” she said, sighing again.
Cyril plunked himself down on a bale of hay, scowling up at her.
“I don’t suppose you’d come down here to talk?”
Ria shook her head firmly. She was fair game for revenge on Cyril’s part, and he might be trying to trick her down from her safe perch. On high ground she had the advantage.
“You know we’re leaving for Allanmere in only a couple of days,” Cyril began. “As soon as all the preparations are finished.”
Ria nodded impatiently. Talk around the keep had been about nothing but the impending journey. Emaril’s servants and guards would likely be glad enough to be rid of Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah and their son and mischievous foster daughter and the extra work they occasioned, although Ria liked to believe she had endeared herself to a fair percentage of the staff. Ria herself was desperately eager for the journey and an end to the placid and uninteresting life at the keep, broken only by a very few journeys to Cielman for Lord Sharl to visit with his brother. Sometimes she felt so restless, so caged, that it seemed she’d burst if she wasn’t set free. Often she ached until she nearly wept for something she could not name; sometimes she ran around and around and around the keep’s walls until her sides ached and her stomach heaved, and still it was not enough. This place, this life, was not enough.
Ria knew her discontentment was wicked and ungrateful; High Lord Emaril had been more than kind to give Lord Sharl and his family the use of the keep after the near destruction of Allanmere, when Lord Sharl had returned to Cielman all but penniless. High Lord Emaril had been supportive, too, of Lord Sharl’s efforts to raise money and settlers to rebuild the city, although Ria had heard Lord Sharl confide to Lady Rivkah that High Lord Emaril thought it a foolish venture.
Ria didn’t care how foolish Lord Sharl’s plan was. If it got her out of this stifling place and back to her true homeland, the home of her people, that was good enough for Ria. Seeing the glum look on Cyril’s face, however, Ria realized that he, perhaps, saw the journey a little differently.
“Won’t it be fun?” Ria said, her deep blue-green eyes sparkling excitedly. “New places to see, a whole city all for us, and a forest and a river and a real journey. It might take weeks to get there.”
“It’s not going to be much fun for a while,” Cyril told her glumly. “The stonemasons will have finished rebuilding part of the castle at least, but there won’t be many servants. It won’t be very comfortable, either, traveling by wagon, and it may be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Really?” Ria almost trembled with eagerness. Until now, “dangerous” was distracting Yvarden, her foster parents’ mage, while she was casting leak proofing spells on the barrels. “Dangerous” was running too fast down the stairs while they were still wet and slick with soapsuds after being scoured. And “dangerous,” of course, was slipping a lizard down the back of Lady Sivia’s gown when the plump matron’s bulk was between Ria and the door. “Dangerous how?”
“Brigands,” Cyril said grimly. “Floods. Tornadoes. Earthquakes. And the elves near Allanmere, of course.”
“The elves?” That made Ria’s pointed ears prick up eagerly. “Why are they—we—dangerous?”
“They were dangerous before,” Cyril pointed out. “Read the histories. They used to shoot arrows at any human who got too close to the forest.”
“That was before the alliance between the elven clans, remember,” Ria said practically. “Before the barbarians came. The elves allied with the city during the war. Why should they be dangerous now?”
Cyril shrugged.
“It’s been sixteen years,” he said. “They may have decided that now that there’s no threat to them, they don’t have any need for an alliance. According to the messages Father and Mother have gotten back, there’s been no friendly contact from the elves. Father’s sent envoys to the edge of the forest, but the elves there shot arrows at anyone who came too close. Father said some of the border clans were always hostile to the humans, and he thinks those clans have claimed most of the border lands, so the envoys can’t get through to meet with clans who might be more friendly. If you’d ever sit still long enough to listen to what Father and Mother talk about at supper, you’d know that.” Ria fell silent. Somewhere in that forest she had a mother, a brother of her own blood—a brother she’d never seen, a mother who had handed her over to the humans like a piece of shoddy trade goods. Her brother had run free in the forest for sixteen years, not caged behind stone walls, not raised by strangers. Had her brother Valann or her mother Chyrie thought about her in all those years? Had they wondered how she fared? Had Valann ever longed to know her? Had Chyrie ever, even for a moment, regretted flinging her daughter aside like a piece of refuse? Or had they both put her out of their minds and gone their own way? Until now, Ria could only wonder. But soon she’d be near them, perhaps even meet them. Eagerness and resentment—well mixed with less definable emotions—warred in her mind.
“But I didn’t come to talk about that,” Cyril said, breaking Ria’s train of thought.
“What is it, then?” Ria said warily. Likely a lecture, then, after all. That, or he was simply acting as an agent of his parents to tell her how much trouble she was in—if not for the incident with Lady Sivia, then for something else.
“Lord Emaril is arriving tonight,” Cyril told her. “He’s going to be talking to Father about the money Father wants to borrow, and the ships to bring supplies down the Bright
water.”
“Ships?” Ria asked in surprise. “I thought we were going in wagons.” Traveling down the river by ship might be much more interesting. Why, Ria had never so much as seen a real river before, much less a ship.
“We are,” Cyril said, dashing Ria’s hopes. “But more supplies will be shipped down the Brightwater later. It’ll take so long to build the farming community back up, Father’s hoping to establish Allanmere as a river trade stopping point. It’s in a good spot for trade ships to stop between the northern cities and the south coast, and to pick up trade goods brought in by caravan from the east. Father’s going to try to persuade Lord Emaril to send a few supply ships down to try it. If Allanmere can get the river trade, the city’s more likely to attract the merchants and artisans it needs to succeed.
“So these negotiations with Lord Emaril are very important,” Cyril continued hesitantly. “Mother and Father need you to behave politely for a change, while Lord Emaril’s here. He and Father have never gotten along well anyway, and Father has to ask him for a lot of help. So you mustn’t do anything that might make Lord Emaril angry while he’s here. Mother and Father wanted me to ask you that.”
Ria scowled. She never quite understood what everyone wanted from her. “Behave politely” and “be good” were ambiguous and confusing concepts. It seemed impossible to predict whether her behavior would meet with approval or not. Sometimes seemingly everything that was any fun whatsoever was “wrong,” and only boring things like sitting still and reading tedious scribblings, or uncomfortable things like sitting still and wearing too much itchy clothing, were “right.” And sometimes even that wasn’t enough; “right” meant remembering when to curtsey and what to say and when to say it, too.
Seeing Ria’s hesitation, Cyril added, “Without Lord Emaril’s help, we won’t even be going to Allanmere.”
That did it.
“All right,” Ria said grudgingly. “I won’t make any trouble while he’s here. I promise.” She’d just have to puzzle out how to get along without “making trouble.”
“All right.” Cyril looked vaguely relieved at Ria’s promise, but he did not get up and leave as Ria had expected. He sat there in the straw, staring at her broodingly until Ria squirmed.
“What?” Ria said uncomfortably. “I promised, didn’t I? What else do you want?”
“Ria, do you remember that ceremony when we were younger?” Cyril said at last. “Where we said those pledges?”
Ria remembered it dimly. It had been more than a decade before. There’d been a priest wearing ornate robes who chanted and told her what words to repeat, she remembered that much; more clearly she recalled the discomfort of her formal gown and the huge feast afterward.
“I remember the feast,” Ria giggled. “You bumped my arm and I spilled the gravy all over you.”
“And you kicked off your shoes under the table,” Cyril chuckled, smiling, “and the dogs ran off with one of them.”
“You made a face at me,” Ria remembered, “and I threw a roll, and you ducked and it hit the Duke’s daughter sitting next to you. But when Father was going to punish me, you said it was your fault.”
“Well, it was,” Cyril admitted. “Sort of. And we still both got punished.”
“They locked me in my room for two days,” Ria said, shuddering. “But what about that ceremony?”
“It—well—” Unaccountably, Cyril blushed, then abruptly got to his feet. “Never mind. It’s not important, I suppose.”
Ria shrugged and watched him leave. Her foster brother was almost impossible to understand, too, and she’d mostly stopped trying. Only a few years ago they’d been the closest of friends, playing together constantly, getting into trouble together to fight the deadly boredom of the day-to-day routine at the keep. Suddenly his voice had started sounding funny and he’d started growing hair in strange places. His scent had changed, too, growing stronger and somehow harsher. At first Ria had thought Cyril was sick and that Lady Rivkah, even with her great healing ability, had overlooked it; sometimes it seemed that everyone around her was half-blind and deaf and could smell practically nothing. She’d expressed her worry to Lady Rivkah, who had only laughed and told her that Cyril was merely growing up.
And as if it wasn’t enough that he no longer looked or smelted or sounded like the Cyril she knew, almost overnight he’d begun to act like a stranger, too. He wouldn’t wrestle in the loft with her anymore, he no longer enjoyed sneaking off to the stream to swim—well, truth be told, he didn’t want to do much of anything interesting anymore. And more and more he gave her funny looks, too, the same sort of look the horses gave the stable boy when he was late with their grain.
It wasn’t only a boy thing, either. The young ladies at court, many of them younger than Ria, were stuffy and boring, prancing around in the stiff and heavy finery Ria so hated, prattling on tediously about the most idiotic subjects. If that was “growing up,” Cyril could have it and welcome. He seemed in a ridiculous hurry to do it, to Ria’s way of thinking.
As soon as she was sure Cyril was gone, Ria climbed down from her perch. Lady Sivia would still be looking for her, and Ria would quickly be found if she returned to her rooms, but it was nearing suppertime and Ria had no intention of missing a meal. She could always count on the scullery maids for a hot meal in the kitchens, and even a hiding place under a table or, if necessary, Cook’s voluminous apron if Lady Sivia made an uncharacteristic foray below stairs. Fortunately, as no new horses had been brought to the stable, it was obvious that Lord Emaril had not yet arrived, so there would be no repercussions from Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah if Ria supped alone.
Ria sneaked into the kitchen by way of the kitchen garden entrance. By this time word of Ria’s latest exploit had already reached the kitchen, and the scullery maids knew Lady Sivia was looking for her charge, so there was a good deal of giggling as the girls picked choice tidbits from the pots to fill a heaping platter for Ria. She repaid the maids by telling the story of Lady Sivia’s gown and the lizard, mimicking the governess’s dance and expression as she’d tried to shake the reptile out the back of her gown, until every maid in the kitchen howled with laughter. That brought the serving maids and stewards, and Ria told the story three times before she finally finished her supper.
The merry party in the kitchen was interrupted by the news that Lord Emaril and his retinue had been sighted by the wall guards, and the scullery maids quickly returned to their cooking pots to have a private supper sent up. That meant that Lady Sivia would be helping Lord Emaril’s governess mind Lord Emaril’s four youngest children, so Ria judged it safe to creep back up to her rooms. To her dismay, however, she found her foster mother Rivkah there, laying out one of the gowns Ria hated so much.
“There you are,” Lady Rivkah said relievedly, scowling at Ria’s grubby state. “Have a quick scrub at the washbasin and get dressed. However did you manage to get all that hay in your hair? Lord Emaril’s here, and you and Cyril must be at the meeting.”
“Whatever for?” Ria said, dismayed. Other than the occasional obligatory appearance at feasts and so forth, she’d always escaped formal occasions with visiting nobility.
“Ria, don’t argue,” Rivkah said firmly. “We’ll talk later. You promised you’d behave; Cyril told me so. Now please get dressed.”
Ria knew her foster mother better than to argue with that tone; it meant that Lady Rivkah was worried and distracted and not likely to give any quarter. Ria disgustedly wriggled into the finery, hating the thick, binding layers of cloth that itched and stifled and weighted her down miserably. Even more disgusting were the stiff, uncomfortable shoes that cramped her toes and made her teeter precariously when she walked. And whatever was the use of the wretched things? Nobody could see her feet under her skirts anyway.
Lady Rivkah inspected Ria’s hands and face critically and sent her back to the basin to scrub the dirt from under her fingernails and comb the last of the hay from her tumbled black curls. The comb caught i
n a tangle, and Ria growled an oath she’d once heard the stable boy use.
“Ria!” Lady Rivkah’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “Young women don’t use such language.”
“I wish I could cut it,” Ria complained, giving the comb another tug and wincing. She wanted to retort that she’d heard Lady Rivkah mutter similar invectives, or worse, on occasion, but that would only provoke an argument.
“Young women don’t cut their hair either,” her foster mother said impatiently. “And neither do your mother’s people, as I recollect. Now come along quickly.”
Lady Rivkah hurried Ria down the corridor to the small meeting chamber, where the maids were hastily laying out a late supper. Lord Sharl was there in his formal surcoat, and Cyril, wearing his finest tunic and trousers, looked so dignified that Ria longed to tickle him. The temptation faded, however, when High Lord Emaril and High Lady Vesana entered, flanked by their personal guards.
Ria stared interestedly at the High Lord and Lady of Cielman. When Lord Emaril and his family had visited on previous occasions, or when Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah had taken Ria and Cyril to Cielman, Ria had taken good care to avoid the adults, lest she be obliged to attend some of the formal suppers and meetings such a visit always brought. Now she was surprised to see that High Lord Emaril didn’t really seem all that much older than Lord Sharl, even though Emaril was the oldest of five brothers and Sharl the youngest. In fact, they looked a good deal alike, with the same steel-gray eyes and strong features, although High Lord Emaril’s hair was a slightly lighter blond than Lord Sharl’s, and High Lord Emaril had grown a short beard over his rather square jaw, while Lord Sharl remained clean-shaven. But Lord Sharl, like High Lord Emaril, had a few gray hairs scattered through his blond locks, and both men had the same frown lines between their eyes.
