“You’ll have it,” Meg said, laughing. “Have you ever known me to keep my opinion to myself, requested or not?”
“Good point. I needn’t have worried. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must become the proper princess and future daughter-in-law.”
Meg smiled as Maerlie straightened up and visibly assumed her formal persona before entering the candlelit room adjoining the dining hall. But really it wasn’t as silly as Maerlie pretended. Soon she’d forget that the proper princess was just a role, and that’s who she’d become, for real, forever. And then it would be Maerlie giving her neutral nods instead of mischievous, half-hidden grins.
“I’m nervous,” Maurel whispered, coming up beside her. Meg pulled herself out of her melancholy thoughts and gave her sister a quick hug. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’ll love you. How could they not?”
About to pass through the door, they suddenly found themselves yanked aside by Nan Vera. “Wait, wait, wait!” the woman whispered frantically, first handing the baby to Meg while she pinned Maurel’s braids swiftly back into place and then shifting the baby to Maurel and rubbing, not quite gently, a creamy salve into Meg’s scraped hand.
“Thank you,” Meg said quietly, suddenly touched by Nan Vera’s care about such things.
Nan Vera only nodded impatiently and ushered the girls into the room before her.
The next hour or so was something of a whirlwind — a blur of new faces and names and smiles and bows and curtsies and lots of those careful, expressionless nods that so many adults seemed so fond of. Meg had been prepared to suffer through a somewhat boring evening of royal posturing, punctuated by moments of happiness for Maer and sadness for herself accompanied by a continuous effort to not think about her secret no matter how much it clamored for her attention. But despite her ambivalence about the impending wedding and her dread of all that it threatened to change, Meg found herself swept up in the excitement of the whole thing. Secrets aside, sadness aside, there was something irresistibly enthralling about the cascade of new people. Especially, she had to admit, certain new people.
Especially, in fact, one in particular.
King Ryllin and Queen Carlinda had brought a number of distinguished members of their household along with them to Trelian, and all of them had been seated at the enormous table together. The head and foot of the table were left empty, to represent equality between the two kingdoms, and everyone was seated along the two long sides. Maerlie and Prince Ryant, along with both sets of royal parents, were seated in a group at one end, but as her sister had foretold, everyone else from both households had been mingled together, so that instead of her usual place between her next oldest and next youngest sister, Meg found herself surrounded by new and very interesting dinner companions.
On her left was none other than Serek, which was especially fascinating for two reasons. First, after having just met Calen that afternoon, it was impossible not to take a greater interest in his master, this mysterious new mage who had been rather elusive ever since his arrival at the castle. No one had been able to get much of a sense of him, other than that he seemed very serious and not much inclined to socializing. The second and even more compelling reason, however, was that Serek had quietly intercepted her parents upon their entry to the hall, which surely must mean something significant — that there was something he had to tell them that could not wait. Unfortunately, by the time Meg had edged close enough to hear anything, her father was thanking the mage and asking him to meet them later that evening for further discussion. Serek bowed his head and walked away, and the king and queen hastily recomposed their features into happy, proud parental expressions. But for a moment, they had seemed anything but happy. What had Serek said to them?
After a formal welcome, in which both kings and queens spoke briefly and eloquently of their joy at the impending marriage and hopes for renewed peace between their kingdoms, everyone was led to their seats by a flurry of nervous-looking pages. Serek gave Meg a silent nod of greeting as he sat down beside her, and such was her surprise at suddenly being this close to him, it was all she could do to smile and nod politely in return. Sadly, he didn’t seem interested in making conversation, which made it difficult to keep finding excuses to turn toward him and study him, as she wanted to.
Luckily, that wasn’t true of Meg’s other table companions. On her right was Richton, another of Prince Ryant’s personal guard. She had expected him to be something like Jorn, quiet and mysterious and brusque, but in fact Richton seemed to enjoy talking almost as much as Serek seemed to avoid it. He had all sorts of fascinating tales of travel and danger and adventure, and he told them with such humor and skill that he had enraptured that entire section of the table by the time the soup was served.
The only thing able to distract Meg from Richton’s stories was the young man sitting directly across from her. Wilem was the son of Sen Eva Lichtendor, the senior advisor to the throne of Kragnir. He was also a trusted companion of Prince Ryant, which made him a potentially invaluable source of all kinds of interesting information. He was also incredibly — almost unbearably — handsome . . . even better-looking, in Meg’s opinion, than the prince (who had actually turned out to be as nice-looking in real life as in his portrait). This had the unfortunate side effect of making it rather difficult for Meg to think clearly or come up with appropriately charming and intelligent things to say to him.
Richton was just finishing a particularly exciting account of how he and Jorn had nearly been killed during a pirate attack when Meg heard Maurel speak up from her place on Richton’s right.
“Was that how Jorn got that big scar? From the pirates?”
Meg winced and was about to apologize on her sister’s behalf, but Richton spoke first.
“I am sorry, young princess, but that’s not my tale to tell,” he said, not unkindly. “If you want to know about Jorn’s scar, you’re going to have to ask him yourself. Shall I call him over for you?” He rose partway out of his chair.
“No!” Maurel cried immediately. Her eyes had grown enormous in her small face.
Richton laughed softly and sat back down. “I’m only teasing, little one,” he said, patting her hand gently. “It would take a braver man than me to interrupt Jorn during a meal.”
Everyone laughed at this, and Maurel gave a tentative smile, perhaps not sure of the joke but realizing all the same that Richton was only playing. Meg smiled, too. Richton seemed a happy and good-natured man, and that seemed to indicate good things about Prince Ryant as well. Meg very much wanted to believe that the prince was as perfect as he seemed. Marrying for love was seldom an option in a ruling family, and although Meg knew and accepted this fact in theory, the idea that Maerlie might find actual love within an arranged marriage . . . well, that would be wonderful. Wonderful for Maerlie, and wonderful in that it meant maybe such a thing would be possible for Meg as well.
Meg cradled this thought in her mind as she stole another glance at Wilem, across the table. The son of a royal advisor was not the most likely match for a princess. But they couldn’t all marry princes, probably, and she was going to have to marry someone eventually, once she was older and well . . . ready. And Wilem was so striking, and tall, and strong-looking, and well spoken, and polite, and he chewed with his mouth closed — she’d been checking — and when he smiled, one side of his mouth curved up higher than the other in a way that made her feel sort of sweetly nervous and silly. And then there were his eyes, his beautiful dark eyes, which she suddenly realized were looking right back at her across the table. . . .
Meg blinked and quickly looked away. Stupid, stupid, she thought angrily, reaching for her heavily watered wine to stall until she could think of some reasonable explanation for why she had been staring at him. Her brain refused to cooperate. She risked looking back up and found him still watching her, though not with annoyance or contempt as she had feared. Instead he gave her one of those smiles, which did nothing to help quiet the mad fluttering of her heart w
ithin her chest, and held her gaze a moment more before turning to respond to something his mother, seated to his right, had asked him.
Freed from her momentary paralysis, Meg looked away and found Maerlie smirking at her from the far end of the table. Meg shrugged helplessly, and Maerlie shook her head, laughing.
For the rest of the meal, Meg did her best to avoid looking at Wilem as much as possible. This was made easier by two things. One, that Maurel was keeping Wilem occupied with endless boring questions about what it was like living in Kragnir, which Wilem was too polite to do anything other than answer, and two, that Sen Eva, Wilem’s mother, had actually managed to draw Serek into a conversation, and nearly all of Meg’s attention was focused on this rare and informative event.
“It was fortunate that Trelian was able to secure your services so quickly after Mage Fredrin’s passing, Mage Serek,” Sen Eva said as a serving boy replaced her plate with the next course. “Although I’m sure your previous patrons were sorry to lose you.”
“The Magistratum is careful not to reassign a mage without a replacement at hand,” Serek answered. “I believe Mage Arlena arrived within hours of my departure, in fact.”
“Of course.” Sen Eva inclined her head slightly. “I suppose after more than three hundred years, the Magistratum has things well in hand.” She flashed a radiant smile at him, the kind of smile that usually made one feel compelled to smile back. Serek pursed his lips; Meg wondered if that passed for a smile as far as he was concerned.
“I don’t have a great deal of experience in these matters,” Sen Eva went on. “Our mage at Kragnir has been at his post for as long as I can remember, and we have not had many dealings with the Magistratum in recent years. Is it difficult, moving around as often as you have?”
“Difficult, madam?”
“Well, adjusting to a new place, new people . . .”
“A mage’s life is dedicated to his work, wherever he is posted. I am, of course, honored to have been appointed King’s Mage, but I serve King Tormon and Queen Merilyn best by focusing on the work, not the environment.”
Meg was impressed by Sen Eva’s ability to persevere with such poise in the face of Serek’s determined bluntness. Most people probably would have given up, but Sen Eva smiled warmly at him again. “I’m sure this dedication is indeed what led to your appointment, Mage Serek.” She paused, then went on, “May I ask — is an appointment such as this one, an honor like this — is it recorded in your marks? Forgive me, but I’ve never understood the full scope of what a mage’s marks include.”
That was an interesting question. Meg had wondered about the same thing herself. Calen’s face was barely marked, just a few lines and small shapes under his left eye, but Serek had delicate black lines spiraling across both sides of his face, with tiny symbols and dots of color worked into the design at various points.
Serek shook his head. “No.” For the first time, Meg thought she detected the barest touch of emotion in his voice. “No, the marks are given for years of study, fields of expertise, and accomplishments of that nature, Sen Eva. A mage may serve many masters in his lifetime, but it is the work and the study of magic that defines his life and purpose. Those are the things that set him apart from others, and the reason why no mage may go unmarked — what he is capable of, not where he performs his duties.” He gestured at her with his knife. “If political appointments were important enough to be writ in flesh, madam, surely one as accomplished as you would bear some marks herself.”
“I — I see, yes. Thank you, Mage Serek. I had not fully understood. I can see why you feel so strongly about this. I hope I have not offended you with my questions.”
Serek suddenly seemed to realize he was pointing his knife at her. He lowered it and offered the hint of a smile, perhaps in apology. “It is a serious matter, Advisor. And one that all mages feel passionately about. But not one that non-mages are usually called upon to understand. I took no offense.”
He near-smiled again, and Sen Eva smiled back with far more conviction. Maybe she was hoping her example would inspire Serek to do it right next time; apparently no one had ever told him that a smile was supposed to include your eyes as well. But Serek’s eyes never seemed to change, no matter what the rest of his face was doing. They were blue, and bright, but there was no warmth in them that Meg could see. Sometimes you could get a good sense of people through their eyes — Calen’s eyes, for example, had been like open windows showing the slightest change in what he was thinking or feeling, constantly flashing in anger or widening in amazement — but Serek’s eyes gave nothing away. It was as if he were hidden behind a wall, able to see out but revealing nothing of his own thoughts or emotions.
Sen Eva turned away from the table to signal for more wine, and Serek suddenly and deliberately turned to stare back at Meg. She felt herself flush. Caught again, she thought ruefully, but this time she didn’t look away. This was too good a chance to miss.
“How are you settling in at the castle, Mage Serek?” she asked politely. It wasn’t the most dazzling of questions, to be sure, but it was the first acceptable thing that came to her mind. She could hardly ask the sorts of things she really wanted to know. “I hope it’s beginning to feel like home.”
“Thank you for your concern, Your Highness,” he answered formally. “My quarters are quite comfortable and adequate for my needs.”
Well, that was certainly revealing. Before he could turn away, she quickly spoke again. “I’m glad to hear it. Mage Fredrin seemed to like his quarters very much, and I know my parents hoped you would be as happy with them as he was.” He nodded, clearly doing his best to avoid prolonging the conversation. A question, she had to ask a question. She cast around desperately for something to ask. “How, um, how do they compare to your former residence? Where was that, again?”
Clumsy, but it did the job. “My last station was in Eldwinn, Your Highness. I had the pleasure of serving the governor of that province. One of your royal cousins, I believe. My residence in Eldwinn was also quite comfortable, though certainly not so grand as this castle.”
“Ah, yes. I hear Eldwinn is lovely, though I have not yet had the opportunity to visit there myself.” They sat for a moment, looking at each other. He just wasn’t going to give up anything willingly, was he? Finally she added, “And was Calen with you at Eldwinn as well?”
Serek raised his eyebrows at this, and she knew immediately that Calen hadn’t mentioned their meeting this afternoon. Well, of course not. She was being stupid again. He’d been sneaking around just as she had. Certainly he wouldn’t have told his master about it.
“I was not aware you had met my young apprentice, Your Highness.” Now he seemed interested. Meg cursed inwardly. The last thing she wanted was to get Calen in trouble! “I hope he hasn’t been making a nuisance of himself.”
“Not at all,” she said, trying to think. “In fact, I met him only once, by chance, while he was on an errand.” That was true, technically. “He seemed very nice. I mean, polite. Not that we spent much time talking. He was eager to continue on his errand. Not that he said that directly, of course, but I could tell. He wasn’t rude or anything.” This was terrible. “I mean, we just exchanged a few words. He seemed very nice.”
Meg turned away and feigned a deep interest in the remains of her meal. She could feel Serek’s cold eyes staring at her, but he said no more. After a minute she heard Sen Eva ask him a question about his experience with medicinal herbs and, with great relief, felt his focus leave her.
Had she managed to accomplish anything this evening other than embarrassing herself? She hoped Wilem hadn’t overheard any of that conversational disaster. She glanced up at him and found him looking at her again. Her face flooded with heat. Again. How red is my face by now? I wonder. But this time she didn’t look away from him. If she was going to stare at people, she might as well be strong about it. With a mighty effort, she forced herself to smile. He smiled back.
Gods, but he had a nice
smile.
At the end of dinner, Maerlie rose and invited everyone out to the royal gardens. It was a warm night, and the gardens were wonderful for walking off the effects of a heavy meal or just enjoying the night air. A few of the young men, who perhaps had had a bit too much wine with dinner, decided to attempt the enormous hedge maze, leading many of the others to speculate that a search party would need to be organized before the night was ended. Most of the remaining guests took to the stone benches nestled among the slender, elegant trees of the main garden or walked around admiring the manicured hedges trimmed in the shapes of various animals.
Meg was looking for Maerlie, to find out what sort of interesting things had happened at her end of the table, when she felt a light touch on her arm. She turned to find Wilem at her side.
“Wh — hello,” she said stupidly, grateful that she was standing far enough away from the lanterns that he probably couldn’t quite see her blushing this time. “I mean, good evening, Wilem. I’m surprised to see you on your own — I thought you’d be eager to rejoin the prince.”
“While I enjoy Prince Ryant’s company enormously, I do get to speak with him often, and there are some here tonight whose company I have not yet been able to enjoy nearly enough.” His voice was low and confident, and Meg felt her pulse racing at the sound of it. She knew she was being silly, but she just couldn’t help it. She couldn’t. Wilem was unbelievably charming, and handsome, and he had that smile, and here he was, talking to her, and not Morgan or Maerlie or the prince or his mother or any of the other important people he could be talking to.
He offered his arm, and she took it, feeling more than a little as though she were dreaming. They began strolling slowly along one of the tree-lined garden paths. For a while neither of them spoke, and the only sound, other than the muted conversations of other guests, was the night breeze rustling through the leaves. Meg looked down, enjoying the sight of their feet walking in step, side by side. For all her earlier staring, she suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with her eyes. She fought the urge to look up at Wilem. Somehow she felt sure he’d be looking right back at her, and without the table between them, the idea of his face so close to hers made her so nervous and excited it was almost frightening.
The Dragon of Trelian Page 4
