by Ru Emerson
“Lady Ylia,” Erken touched her arm. “If you'd like down from here, you're rapidly being deserted and you don't look dressed to go clambering on platforms today.”
“So I'm not. Thank you.” She let him catch at her waist, lift her down. “That's new, I like it.”
Erken held out his arms, resettled the short plum-colored cape over his left arm. He looked extremely pleased. “D'ye think so? I liked the look all along, but I couldn't see the cost. Though frankly,” he laughed, “there was the matter of color, and how a man was to decide which he wanted. Now, I'm a man of simple taste—”
Ylia laughed. You always were, of course!”
“Well—perhaps not. My son claims he sold his skins at a good price. I have to presume that he did.”
“Galdan! I should have known. His, yours. And have you seen Golsat?”
“I confess: astonishment. He'll be sorry he let my son lead him into such silliness, though.”
“You think? He looks—well, I'd never thought of Golsat like that before, but he looks—”
“Exactly so,” Erken put in as she sought the right word. Every maiden in Korderra has marked. I think I shall go and see what he's up to. I haven't seen the boy so clean and neat since his mother was still dressing him.” And he slid through the people and was gone.
She wandered back toward the Tower, found Golsat, walked through the market with him. “I like that, you've good taste.”
“I feel half undressed; if you want the truth,” Golsat said bluntly. “But it's not as bad as when I first put it on, so, I suppose’ One adjusts. And its for Brel and Betha, after all.”
“For whatever cause, I like it.”
“Thank Galdan, then, he chose the colors and had it done for me.”
“Oh.” She stopped, purchased a cup of cold fruited wine for both of them. “How is he?”
Golsat shrugged, raised his cup in toast. “To Brel and ‘Betha. They're a good match, they'll be happy, How's—? Ah. Galdan. He's well enough. Pleased with himself, just now, but that's the trading, he struck a hard deal with Kre'Darst and came off to the better.”
“Ah. He told me he'd be searching for Mathkkra.”
“Oh, he did that, but with no result. Said it was all dull enough stuff, it could wait until after today. He brought back trinkets for Brelian and Lisabetha. I hope I'm nearby when he gives them. Silver-bound matching daggers.”
“That must have been quite a bargain.”
“He had the better part of a season's catch with him, and furs are fashionable in Osnera now. Kre'Darst didn't come off poor by the trade.”
“No, he wouldn't.” Golsat left her with Corlin and Lossana and went in search of his friends. The minstrels were playing down by the bridge: some of the younger folk had taken it over for dancing. Ylia took a cup of the summer wine and a piece of soft yellow cheese, went back through the square and the mark with Lossana.
There was a feast late in the afternoon, then more music and the square was cleared for more dancing as Ber'Sordes's new household musicians came out.
The square was crowded: The music was good, and dancing a favorite pastime among the Plainsfolk. Erken's danced once with her—she wasn't as comfortable as most at it, but her mother had taught her until she was at least competent. She danced once then with Corlin, took a formal set with Ber'Sordes and Ang'Har after that, and was glad to sit for a while.
She saw Golsat once, when he was dancing with his sister—one of her newest swordswomen—Mothers, if Erken wasn't right. Girls who had never paid heed to her dark armsman before stared after him now. Golsat seemed blissfully unaware of the havoc he was creating. She thought fleetingly of Ysian, and wondered what she would think of the change in Golsat.
A form came between her and the dancers; startled she looked up as Galdan bowed, gravely correct. “If no one has claimed the next dance of you, my Lady, I would be honored to take it.”
No one has, and you may have it, First Knight of my House.” If he could be ridiculously formal, so could she. “The honor is mine.” He inclined his head, stood just behind her chair to wait for the music.
He danced well, which should not have surprised her. Erken's son would never have been permitted to trip over his feet or his partner's, not if Erken had the say. He remained gravely correct a little aloof, spoke not at all, led her back to the dais when the music ended and vanished into the crowd. She gazed after him briefly, a frown creasing her brow. But Ber'Sordes was at her elbow, offering her another cup of Narran summerwine. This was the dark vintage they grew and fermented high on their main island; it retained the flavor of grapes, reminded her of the juices Malaeth had made for her when she was a child.
The musicians took an hour to rest, people milled around the square. Down one of the market aisles, Brelian and Lisabetha must have turned up, because someone had started one of the more raucous songs made for the honor of the newly married. She could feel the blood in her cheeks, hoped none of the Narrans would ask her for a translation.
Galdan and Golsat wandered past just as the musicians began to play again. She winced. More tradition, Mothers help us all, one we could have done well without. Both were loudly, joyously drunk. As they vanished into the crowd, they broke into another wedding-night song. This one was fortunately not as specific as the last, for she was certain the Ambassador couldn't fail to hear them.
Nor did he. “That's an interesting tune,” Ber'Sordes smiled. “What does it mean?”
“Um. The usual things, happiness to the new couple, all that.”
Ber'Sordes looked disconcerted indeed. “Oh.”
“No, not that!" she laughingly assured him. “But I think it would be better if either of them could sing!”
“Well, perhaps they can,” the Ambassador ventured. “Sober, that is.”
The music started up again, livelier tunes and now mostly the younger boys and their girls danced. The older folk stayed to the outside, enjoying the music, clapping in time to it, trading comments about those who danced, noting who danced with whom, gossiping over which might be the next wedding. Lisabetha and Brelian led out the first two dances; then vanished for good.
Ber'Sordes gave her another cup of the heavy red wine. It tasted good as it was, even better fruited. The Ambassador was telling her dry little tales of his service as a Liaison in Osnera, keeping her laughing. Even Ang'Har, now that be no longer looked at her as though she were the light of a full moon dazzling his eyes, proved to be likeable; able to tell a good tale. He collected them too, along with the sillier of Nedaoan folk songs.”
“Ang'Har, you don't!"
Truly, he replied earnestly. You've the best of the kind I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot of them.”
“You can't! No one does that! Except me.”
“You?” His mouth fell open.
She laughed. “Swear it! But—I don't believe this, you actually have gone in search of people to teach you those songs? I'm surprised you found anyone who knows them—or would admit to knowing them.”
“I like them,” he insisted. “I particularly like the way people groan when you start singing, but they always laugh at the end”
“So they do. D'you know ‘The Five Tinkers'?”
“That's the one with the green dye, and they—no, that's another one.”
“The green dye is ‘The Soldier's Strange Brew.'”
He laughed. “Of course! The Soldier's Strange—oh.” He cast her a dubious glance. “A Lady shouldn't know that one!”
“It's borderline,” she admitted. “I never sang it for my mother, and I wouldn't sing it here and now. But I know it, and I laugh at the last verses. Thank you,” she added as Ber'Sordes filled her cup again and handed it back to her.
“Well, my favorite, so far,” Ang'Har said, “is ‘The Lady and the Dragon.'”
“Oh, no. It's mine, too. Especially—”
“—What I like best—”
“—and he's just so smug, so caught up in how wonderful he is, and�
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“—and then he tries to rescue her from the dragon before it eats her and he offers to marry her and—”
“—'and I'll be yours forever, you lucky wench'—”
“—those aren't the words I got, but—and then she says—” and, together, and near enough to key, they both sang: “'Pardon me, sir, if it's all the same, but I'd rather have the dragon.'” Ylia collapsed back in her chair, giggling weakly. Ang'Har laughed, and the Ambassador applauded them both.
It's terrible,” Ylia said finally, but she broke up again when Ang'Har met her eye and winked.
“Of course it is, they all are. That's the point, isn't it?”
My position prohibits me to say so. Accident, no doubt. Not deliberate intent.” She managed the words without a stumble, but it took care. ‘You're drunk,’ Nisana's thought intruded suddenly, accusingly. ‘I am not, cat. I'm—’
'Drunk, the cat finished for her as she paused to seek a better word. ‘You'll have a head like a melon in the morning, and you're getting silly.’
'Silly. Hah.’ But she set the half-filled cup aside and pushed to her feet: steadily, or so she hoped. “My Lords, by your leave. It's been a long day, and—that's a sneaking wine you have, Lord Ambassador.”
“So it is.” Ber'Sordes inclined his head gravely. “So much so,” he added, “that I hope you will not take offense if I do not rise. I think I must save my strength for the return to my quarters.” She laughed, shook her head. Ang'Har stood to hand her down from the platform, and he walked her around the square.
Eyes; someone was glaring at her. She glanced off to both sides—no one. The feeling persisted. Ang'Har stopped at the first step when they reached the Tower, bowed low over her fingers and was gone. She gazed out over the square, the dancers, sighed deeply and happily, and turned to climb the steps. It was, suddenly, a task to take all her concentration indeed.
She reached the door, caught at it, turned as footsteps thudded up behind her Galdan stood before her. “My Lady.” He opened both doors for her, closed them behind him.
It was shadowy in the hall, the ceiling was lost in gloom and the stairs were dark; only two candles burned in the glass enclosures on either side of the doors and one on the ledge at the head of the steps. “My Lady.” She turned. He closed the distance between them. He was steady on his feet but the words came out oddly.
“Lord Galdan.” This formality was something new with him tonight, and she found it irritating: was he mocking her? Laughing at her? There was something under his words, under his constant ‘my Lady’ that dug at her. “You're in your cups tonight, aren't you?”
“It's expected,” he replied cheerfully. “I was celebrating. I'm not drunk.”
“Kind of you to assure me so.” Silence. “You're between me and the stair, and I'm tried. If you don't mind, I'd like to get by you.”
“And if I do?” he demanded suddenly. “If I do mind?”
She sighed. “Are we back to fighting? All around the circle and back to its joining. If you want to argue, fine, do so. But not with me, not tonight. I'm tired, and you're drunk.”
“Hah.” She stepped to one side, stopped as he moved to again stand between her and the stair. “I'm drunk. Not so drunk that I do not remember my duty to my Queen and my arms-mate. You gave me that duty, if you remember.”
“If you—”
“Hush, woman, let me speak, this once!” He caught at her shoulders, punctuated his words with a gentle shake. She felt his fingers hard against muscle. “Ang'Har the young. He's on Father's lists, I'll just wager he is! He's noble, as Narrans figure it, and he's pretty with his baby's face. He'd look fair on Nedao's throne.” She opened her mouth, shut it as he cast her a searing look. “He'd never lead the armies, but that's all right, the ruling is yours by birth and you do that anyway! Of course, you could keep him as consort and deny him the throne, but Nar might take that hard—” The wine had gone from his voice as he spoke and anger seeped into it. It curdled in her stomach.
“You can't talk to me like that!”
“No? As a member of your council, as your arms-mate, as your Household armsman? But someone should tell you such things, before you make a fool of yourself!”
“I make a fool of myself? You must be drunk indeed to stand there and say that to me as though you mean it!”
“I have sworn to your service for all my life,” he said flatly, and punctuated his words with another shake. “And I would swear to more, did I ever hope to see assent in your eyes, Lady.” He pulled her close, kissed her hard and let her go; she stumbled, caught at the banister for balance. Before she could say anything at all, he was gone.
“Ylia?” Malaeth and two of the older women came in moments later to find her standing in the hall, staring past the doors. “Are you—you've been drinking, girl!” the old woman accused “Did you eat enough tonight?”
“I don't remember. I think I did.”
“You'll know in the morning,” Malaeth warned. “And whatever are you doing here in the hall? It's late and you'll catch a chill down here. It's gone cold.”
“Has it?” Ylia asked vaguely, but allowed herself to be led upstairs. Malaeth hung the red and gold dress on a peg, checked it over briefly.
“You wore that all day and kept it clean and untorn. I'm astonished, girl!”
'She danced in it, too,’ Nisana put in sleepily from the bed. ‘That's usually good for a ripped-hem or two. Are you ill, girl?’
'No—fine.’
'Huh. If you've taken a fever—’ But she tucked her head back down under one paw and went back to sleep.
Ylia let the old woman install her in the sleep shirt, sat quietly as Malaeth brushed her hair down and tied it in the single plait for night, then slid under the blankets. Malaeth tucked them around her chin, closed the long shutters and took the light away with her.
There was the sea: she'd the smell of it, suddenly, and the whispery sound of it hitting sand, pulling away. She couldn't see it, because the tower filled all her vision, blocking everything else, including light. She’ pushed through a rotting canvas curtain. Steps: They wound around the outside of the tower, inside a thick rock wall. She could sense how thick. There were no windows, no openings. I'll smother, and for a moment, she couldn't remember how to breathe. Her feet went on climbing, her knees were beginning to ache with it and there was a catch in her side.
An odd smell to the air: scented smoke. And, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she realized she could see, because there was the outline of a door ahead of her. And the light that outlined it was deep, darkly red. The red of dried blood.
The door was closed, perhaps latched. She passed beyond it, was in the next moment beyond the still closed door and in a round room. It was at the top of the tower: the walls were stone, but the roof was wood and high-gabled. Tapestries covered the walls, holding back the damp and cold of the rock; there were deep carpets under her feet. A fire in a wide pit had smoldered down to red; smoke trailed from it to a hole in the roof far above, Two braziers, capped, stood just beyond it, Lisabetha save it first, now me. It came as no surprise when she turned and saw the two who occupied the table at the room's center.
They were unaware of her: Marrita stood behind a heavy, ornately carved chair, her hand resting on Lyiadd's shoulder. There were lines at her eyes that hadn't been there before: something had exacted a price from her. Whatever had taken, though, had given also, for there was something about her—a sense, a scent, a feeling. Power to twist and rend, to destroy. The Lammior's Power.
And the man: creature in man's form, she'd thought him, on first sight. He was that and more. His hands rested on the edges of a dark bowl; red smoke trailed over its edges to slide in curls about the tabletop. Those hands had nearly killed her once, but with steel, he'd used steel, threats, an AEldra strength—warped but still knowably AEldra. His face came up: there was a curious blankness to his smoke-colored eyes, as though something of him had been lost, not yet found.
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br /> But his hands: They terrified her. They could kill with a touch, could tear flesh, burn and blacken it, rend the inner being—less than a touch, with the thought of a touch.
It took an effort that left her ill to tear her eyes from those fingers where they rested against the lip of the bowl. A map, on the table beyond him—look at that instead, she urged herself. Map—the Peopled Lands were sectioned off into three parcels, light-colored hatchings dividing them. As she stared at the map, it seemed to crisp at the edges, red crept around it and it burst into flame. Her eyes were seared, she stumbled back. Horror gripped her suddenly, her legs refused to work, she could not breath. And Lyiadd's eyes came up, Marrita's did, and sought hers—
She screamed, threw herself to one side, and suddenly woke. Nisana, every hair standing on end, leaped for the pillow. ‘A dream, that's all! Here—calm yourself—’ She rubbed against an unresponsive hand, butted Ylia's face with her head. Ylia panted, became aware she was panting, brought her breathing under control. “Not dead,” she whispered. “Not dead.”
No. It's all right, don't fret it.’
“It's not all right. Not—did I cry aloud?”
'No, you woke no one, just me.’
“Good.” She turned onto her side, pulled the furs close about her throat. “I dreamed—”
Tomorrow, Nisana broke in. Don't think on it, sleep again. Come, close your eyes—’
'I can't, I'm afraid—’
'You can. I'm here. Trust me, girl. I'll guard you—”
“Against that—”
'I can. You know I can, and I will. Trust. Sleep. If took time, took enough time to worry her. The girl finally slept. She never dreamed before, not like this. Poor girl—she has enough to fret, without fretting things she can't yet reach. And she'll worry it. Is that why the dream came to her, to worry her and wear her down? Nisana resettled herself hard against Ylia's shoulder. It won't, not if I can prevent.
