by J. L. Doty
“I am happy because of you, Morgin.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“I am told you delivered my SandoFall from what would have surely been great harm.”
“Oh!” Morgin said. “You mean Valso. But that was nothing. I just made him let us go.”
“And you prevented him from harming my SandoFall, from turning this into a day of sorrow instead of joy.” She smiled, leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek. Then she curtsied to him as if he were a great lord. “I thank you, my brother, my lord. Today you are my hero as no other could ever be.”
~~~
The wedding ceremony was long and tedious, but Annaline was joyful throughout. Morgin, flushed with pride, was not in the least bored. Once, during one of the more elaborate motions of the ceremony, she and SandoFall turned to face the audience. For just an instant her eyes met Morgin’s, she smiled warmly, then winked surreptitiously. He winked back, and his pride swelled even further.
He tried to seek her out during the grand ball that followed, but was intercepted almost immediately by a dowager of Clan Penda. She chattered incessantly, while pushing her daughter on him and insisting they dance.
JohnEngine had warned him about falling prey to the designs of women. “Be careful, Morgin,” he’d said. “You’re not just any Elhiyne. You’re one of the Elhiynes, and there’s not a mother in the Lesser Clans who wouldn’t bed with demons to see her daughter married to you. Or me, for that matter.”
The daughter was a miniature copy of her mother. She even chattered like her mother, when she wasn’t giggling. There wasn’t a moment during which her lips weren’t making some sort of noise.
Why me? thought Morgin. But he was polite. And when the dance ended, he even dallied for a few moments to avoid being obvious. Then he returned the girl to her mother and retreated quickly.
But no sooner had the next dance begun than he was accosted by another mother with another daughter. Again he danced with the girl, and again he was polite. At least this one didn’t giggle, and she laughed knowingly when he said something witty. In fact, she laughed knowingly at everything he said, as if all his words were the essence of sophisticated banter. As an experiment he began to mumble, to slur his pronunciation a little. Eventually he was mumbling incoherent babble, only slightly masked by the sound of the music, and yet the girl continued to laugh and nod knowingly.
The next dance saw another mother-daughter team, and the one after that another. It became so ridiculous that Morgin no longer even bothered to talk, and each daughter, having been thoroughly instructed by her mother to display her utmost charms, filled the vacuum with polite, but uninteresting, conversation.
Morgin quickly tired of this foolish charade. Mothers and daughters! He couldn’t even remember the name of the girl with whom he was dancing at the moment, though he was almost certain she was an Inetka. At least she, realizing that his patience for hollow conversation was exhausted, had ceased prattling.
She suddenly stopped dancing and Morgin stepped on her foot.
“Ouch,” she said angrily. She stepped back from him, put her fists on her hips, looked at him with a storm growing behind her eyes. “Your brother said you’re a gentleman, and that if you’re quiet, it’s only because you’re a little shy. But I find you boorish. And you’re also a clumsy oaf.”
“I’m sorry,” Morgin said. “It’s just that these mothers keep forcing their daughters on me.”
Her eyes darkened even further. Green eyes, Morgin noticed. Pretty eyes. “So I was forced on you, was I?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
She sneered. “Your meaning was quite clear. And what makes you think that you weren’t forced on me as well?”
“I . . . Well I . . .”
“At least I had the courtesy to be civil in what was a mutually uncomfortable situation.”
With that, she turned her back on him and walked away, leaving Morgin alone in the middle of the dance floor. He moved quickly to avoid any mothers with daughters. He steered straight for JohnEngine, who stood among a cluster of young men.
“What in netherhell’s going on?” he demanded.
JohnEngine grinned. “Difficulties, brother. I wish I had such troubles.”
“Too many ladies for you?” Dannasul asked.
“Yes,” Morgin said angrily. “No. Too many mothers pushing too many daughters on me. What’s going on?”
“Shall we tell him?” JohnEngine asked DaNoel.
“Tell me what?”
DaNoel ignored Morgin. “I don’t know, John. As usual his head’s up in the clouds and he hasn’t the vaguest idea.”
“Idea about what?” Morgin demanded.
“You’re right,” JohnEngine said seriously to DaNoel. “Perhaps he should find out for himself.”
“Damn it!” Morgin said. “Find out what?”
Brandon elbowed his way between JohnEngine and DaNoel. “Your reputation is spreading, Morgin.”
“What reputation?”
Brandon shrugged. “No one likes the Decouix, and you humbled him badly.”
“How did they find out about that?”
“It’s all over the city,” Dannasul said. “You can’t keep a duel like that quiet. Especially when it involves the Decouix.”
“But there was no duel,” Morgin said.
Brandon shook his head as if Morgin were a slow-witted child. “The story that’s going about the city is that Valso was ready to let his Kulls murder us all. You challenged him. He could not refuse without seeming cowardly, but he demanded that it be a duel to the death. The two of you fought, and by superior swordsmanship you overcame him. But you were merciful and granted him his life on the condition that we be allowed to leave unharmed.”
“That’s preposterous,” Morgin said.
Brandon agreed. “I know.”
“But Brandon tells the story so poorly,” JohnEngine complained. “Oh he’s got the facts straight, but in the streets it’s told with so much more embellishment: a blow by blow description of two master swordsmen battling their way from one end of the city to the other. It sounds so much better that way, don’t you think?”
DaNoel raised his mug of ale. He was already a bit drunk, swaying slightly as he spoke. “To mighty Morgin. The greatest swordsman in all the land.”
He drank deeply, as did the others. They laughed noisily, and while DaNoel laughed too, his laugh was forced, as if he and Morgin had returned to the uneasy posture that always separated them. DaNoel staggered into Morgin, and under the guise of catching his balance, hissed in his ear, “You don’t fool me, whoreson.”
JohnEngine’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Ah, Rhianne!” he said, looking over Morgin’s shoulder.
Morgin turned to find the young Inetka girl on whose toes he had earlier stepped.
JohnEngine swooped around him and took her hand. He kissed it with a flourish. “Rhianne. This is a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t expected to see you free so easily.”
“Good evening, JohnEngine,” she said pleasantly. “I tire of dancing, and of oafish dancers who step on my toes.” Her eyes passed quickly over Morgin.
“Then what besides dancing would you like?” JohnEngine asked.
“A small goblet of wine and some pleasant conversation.”
Dannasul fetched the wine while JohnEngine hovered jealously about her. “I don’t believe I’ve met everyone here,” she said.
JohnEngine frowned. “You don’t want to know these ruffians.”
She sipped her wine coyly. “You just want to keep me for yourself.”
“Ah Rhianne,” he said. “You know me too well. Nevertheless.” He shrugged and turned to the rest of them. “Rhianne ye Inetka. You already know my brother DaNoel et Elhiyne, and my cousin Brandon et Elhiyne.”
They both nodded. JohnEngine put a hand on Dannasul’s shoulder. “This is Dannasul ye Elhiyne—a distant cousin—and the one here with his mouth open is my bother AethonLaw et Elhiyne, who goes by the name of
Morgin.”
She looked at Morgin, turned one brow upward and offered her hand. Morgin took it, bowed, kissed it much like JohnEngine, but without the flourish, all the while never certain that he was doing it properly.
“So you’re the great swordsman,” she said. “It’s a pity you can’t dance as well.”
Morgin shrugged.
JohnEngine frowned. “Do you two know each other?”
Rhianne smiled an unfriendly smile. “We’re acquainted.”
Morgin suddenly wished he knew a spell of invisibility. “I’m the oafish dancer who stepped on her toes.”
DaNoel’s teeth suddenly shined in the middle of a broad grin. Brandon shook his head pityingly. Dannasul choked back a laugh. JohnEngine let one out. “Oh brother-of-mine. That’s precious.”
“AethonLaw,” a woman called. “AethonLaw is that you?”
Morgin cringed inwardly. He recognized her: a Penda woman with more than one daughter, one of whom she literally dragged across the dance floor now.
“AethonLaw. You must meet my other daughter Anja. Anja. Meet AethonLaw et Elhiyne.”
The girl was all of twelve years old. She looked at him and wrinkled her nose.
Morgin summoned every ounce of courtesy he could find. He bowed. “I am honored, milady.”
“Anja’s been wanting to meet you all evening, AethonLaw. Haven’t you, Anja?”
The little girl wrinkled her nose again.
Dannasul snickered.
“You two run along and dance now,” Anja’s mother said.
“I don’t want to dance,” Anja said.
JohnEngine spluttered and coughed, spilling ale and slapping himself on the chest. “Sorry,” he said chuckling. “Took a little ale down the wrong pipe.”
Morgin wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. “Would you care to dance?” he asked Anja politely.
“No,” she said petulantly.
JohnEngine turned away, fighting back open laughter. “Think I’ll get more ale.”
“Now, Anja,” her mother said. “Don’t be rude. Dance with AethonLaw.”
After a little cajoling Anja finally condescended to dance with Morgin, though she was none too happy about it. Morgin took care not to step on her toes, though she walked all over his. When the music ended she went her way and he snuck out into the gardens where he hoped to find refuge from mothers and daughters.
The night air was still and pleasing. He found a stone bench to one side of the terrace and sat down alone. Below him lay the city, a dark skyline of buildings with small, lighted pockets of activity.
“Morgin,” Rhianne said softly. “Are you out here?”
He stiffened, remained quiet, hoping she’d pass him by unnoticed. Then he heard the soft rustle of her skirts behind him. “That was terribly humiliating, wasn’t it?”
“If you mean Anja?” he asked, trying to sound unconcerned. “It really didn’t bother me.”
“Yes it did,” she said softly. “And you were very polite about the whole thing, as you are trying to be polite now.”
He shrugged.
“May I join you?”
“Sure,” he said. “Sit down.”
She did so, and again he heard the soft rustle of her skirts. Her perfume drifted about him, carried by a breeze too gentle to be felt. Like Rhianne herself, the scent she wore was soft, and while he desperately wanted to, he refused to look her way, all the while knowing himself to be a fool.
“I’m sorry I stepped on your toes,” he said.
She laughed a little. “You hurt my pride more that my toes.”
“Well I’m sorry about that too.”
He wanted to say something more, to be witty and charming like JohnEngine, but he could think of nothing, and he knew if he tried he’d make a mess of it and sound even more the fool.
“Morgin,” she said tentatively. “When my mother introduced me to you, was she anything like Anja’s? And be honest with me. Don’t be polite again.”
“To tell you the truth,” he said. “I really don’t know. I don’t even remember being introduced. By that time I’d stopped paying attention and was just going through the motions.”
“How many times has that happened this evening?”
“I don’t know that either,” he said. “I lost count long ago.”
“You must have had a thoroughly wretched evening. Surely it can’t all be because you humbled Valso.”
Morgin shrugged. He’d been thinking about that himself. “There’s more. Of course my brothers and cousins don’t see it that way, but they’re not adopted either.”
“What does that have to do with it?” she asked. “Clan law recognizes no difference between adoption and birth.”
“I think you’re being naive,” he said politely. He turned to face her, to truly look at her for the first time that evening. A small, curly lock of hair had fought its way loose from the elaborate tangle on top of her head, and he realized he could lose himself in that face. Her curiosity was honest, but remembering a lifetime of subtly unintended insults and unknowing slights, he wondered if she could ever understand.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “Clan law is enforced by men and women who are as fallible as you and I. In gross matters I am of House Elhiyne, and none dare say otherwise. But in the fine points, the little things that are ruled by people’s prejudices, I am still the adopted whoreson, as I shall always be.”
In the moonlight he could see her brow wrinkle, and he noticed that even frowning, she was beautiful. “But what does that have to do with dances and mothers with marriageable daughters?”
“Well now,” Morgin said, “Every one of those daughters, including you, and I mean no insult by this, but every one of them was the daughter of a minor lord. A daughter of one of the major houses may expect to marry high within the caste of one of the clans. And while by adoption and law I am of the highest caste, I am still the whoreson and that makes me just a little more accessible than my brothers and cousins. Your mother, and the others, thought that their daughters, who ordinarily could never expect to marry into one of the great houses, might still have a chance with me, the whoreson.”
Rhianne nodded slowly. Morgin could see that she understood. “And the incident with Valso?” she asked.
“That’s what opened up all the possibilities in those mother’s minds. Since I am the hero of the moment, the mothers have hopes that their daughters will resist them less when they propose marriage with me.”
Rhianne smiled. She reached out and took his hands in hers. “You don’t seem at all bitter about this.”
“Me?” Morgin asked. “Bitter? Why should I be bitter? My life is much better with the clan than it was before. I love my brothers and sisters and cousins. And they love me, for the most part. And there has never been any question that I am deeply loved by my mother and father. So what do a few slights matter?”
She looked at him oddly. “I like you, Morgin. I like you very much.”
She stood, still holding his hands. “Come. Let us dance again. But this time we’ll dance because we want to.”
Morgin only danced when forced to by circumstance, or required courtesy, and at that moment dancing was the last thing he would have chosen to do. But suddenly, for Rhianne, he would have done anything. He escorted her out onto the dance floor, smiling outwardly, terrified inwardly, trying to remember the lessons that Olivia had forced upon him. For once, he was grateful for something the old woman had demanded he learn.
The music began. He managed to stay with it, concentrating intently, moving with utmost care. And then he realized that Rhianne had asked him something, and he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
“What?” he asked.
“I asked if you are as good a swordsman as they say.”
“Who me? Who says I’m a good swordsman?”
“The story I’ve been told is that you’re a master.”
Oh no! Morgin thought, but without hesitation he confessed. “It�
��s all false. I’ve been trained with the sword, but I’m an exceedingly poor student.”
“But how did you overcome Valso?” she asked. “He is a master.”
Morgin laughed uneasily, knowing he had no choice but to tell her the truth. He told her of the incident in the inn as he remembered it. “So you see,” he said. “I came out of nowhere. I had surprise with me. Were it not for that, I could never have succeeded.”
Her lips turned upward as he spoke, and when he was done she threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Oh that’s funny, Morgin. That’s so terribly funny.”
He was humiliated, but then she saw the look on his face and she stopped laughing. “Oh not you, Morgin. I’m not laughing at you. Don’t you see? The joke is on them. What you did still took great courage, and yet they don’t realize it.”
He laughed uneasily. “I didn’t feel courageous at the time.”
She smiled at him warmly. “My father says brave men never feel brave while they’re being brave.”
The dance ended then and Morgin escorted her off the floor. She was very pretty, and very popular, and much in demand by all the young men who were far more handsome than he. But he wanted to dance with her again, and hoping beyond hope he dallied for a moment.
The music began again, and sure enough a young Penda lord approached. He was tall and handsome, and Morgin could see her face light up as he requested the next dance. But instead of accepting she said, “I am honored Lord ErrinCastle, but alas I’ve promised the next dance to Lord AethonLaw here.”
Morgin had heard of ErrinCastle. He was BlakeDown’s son, and the heir to Penda. He smiled politely at Rhianne, managed to avoid acknowledging Morgin’s presence with so much as a look. “Perhaps the next dance, then?” he asked.
She nodded politely and agreed. “The next dance.”
Once she and Morgin were again out on the dance floor, she whispered excitedly in his ear, “I’ve been hoping he’d ask me to dance.”
“Then why didn’t you dance with him.”
“Oh you wouldn’t understand these things,” she said, then proceeded to spend the rest of the dance talking about ErrinCastle, and how he was so handsome and brave and strong. By the end of the dance Morgin had developed a healthy dislike for the young Penda lord.
