“But I also am too young to marry!” Elise protested, selecting the first argument that Jet's words suggested. “Marriages are not contracted until the partners are nineteen.”
“Consummated,” Jet corrected with a unguarded glance that suggested that he had fantasized about the prospect with some of the ardor that had been absent from his proposal. “Some marriages have been contracted long before that date, nor have all the formalities waited until the participants reached their majority. In any case, you're nearly eighteen.”
Elise colored. The most usual reason for marriage before the participants were legal adults was an accidental pregnancy. No matter what the obvious political advantages, if she and Jet wed, there would still be whispers, whispers that would not necessarily be stilled when the bride did not deliver a “premature” infant.
“I would not care to make myself the subject of scandal,” she said firmly, “no matter how great the prize to be won.”
“I understand, lovely cousin,” Jet said, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Your scruples do you credit. Still, there is no reason not to arrange a betrothal, is there? King Tedric might even encourage us to marry before your majority. If we wed at the king's command, no one could cast aspersions on your maidenly honor.”
Elise frowned. Jet's proposal was enticing. He was hand-some, strong, well connected. Though they were cousins, the relationship was not too close. Indeed, just a few years be-fore, she had daydreamed about marriage to him. That had been before she had realized sadly that Lord Rolfston and Lady Melina would not permit their son to remain unmarried until she was eligible.
Certainly, King Tedric could not fail to see the advantages of a match between them. Grand Duke Gadman and Grand Duchess Rosene would both be satisfied, for each would see a descendant ascend to the throne. Only Aunt Zorana would be unhappy, and even she might be consoled at the thought of her niece as queen—especially if Jet was merely consort.
“Would you support me as queen?” Elise asked, pursuing this idea. “King Tedric might not choose to pass over our fathers. Or he might name me his heir. My odds of being named heir—even without any alliance such as you suggest—have usually been considered better than yours. Would you be content if I were queen and you were my consort?”
Jet paused as if to consider, but she was certain he had mulled over his answer in advance.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I would support you. Whether you or I were monarch, the other still would be elevated to great honor. Moreover, our child would follow us onto the throne. That is an honor not lightly forgone.”
Elise nodded. Until this moment, she had not considered further than her own ascension in the unlikelihood that her father succeeded King Tedric. Now she realized that more was at stake here than the prestige and power of a single lifetime.
As a royal ancestor, great honors would be paid to her even after her death. On the Festival of the Eagle, her image would be paraded with those of Queen Zorana, King Chalmer, and King Tedric. If she was consort, those honors still would be paid to her, just as they were to live Elkwood (who had died even before his wife had solidified her kingdom) and to Queen Rose.
Ancestors were always patrons to their descendants, but the people believed that ancestral monarchs were patrons to all their former subjects down through time. As such, they received sacrifices from every family altar, sacrifices that were said to give them considerable power in the afterworld.
Aware that Jet was watching her, the glittering light in his eyes brighter than ever, Elise managed to speak:
“That is an interesting point, Jet. I believe that you would support my monarchy if I were named before you.”
“And would you support my kingship?” he asked, certain of the reply. “As a scion of House Goshawk, my father out-ranks yours. My mother is a Shield of House Gyrfalcon, and so outranks your Wellward mother. King Tedric may consider this when naming his heir.”
“Those arguments,” Elise admitted, “have been raised before—although more usually in your sister's favor. Yes, if we were wed and King Tedric named you his heir, I would support you.”
“And if we were merely engaged?” he pushed.
“Engagements,” she stated firmly, “have been broken once political goals have been attained—as your sister Sapphire has demonstrated so ably.”
Jet scowled. “I am not Sapphire!”
“No,” Elise replied easily, “but my parents will not over-look her history, even if I trust you.”
As I am not yet certain that I do, she added silently.
“I concede your point,” he said gallantly, lightly kissing her hand.
Gently, she drew her hand back, her fingers still tingling from the caress.
“I am a minor yet,” she reminded him. “And cannot con-tract a marriage for myself. If you are serious about this, you must approach my parents.”
Jet nodded. “I know. Honestly, Elise, I have not even spoken with my own parents on this matter. I wished first to know your heart. When I speak with them, may I say that you would consider my proposal?”
Elise liked Jet better for wanting her consent first, then wondered if he was just being cautious. She phrased her answer carefully.
“Yes, you may tell them that/would consider it. I cannot answer for my parents.”
Nor, she thought, as they made their farewells and Jet took his leave, have I said that I would accept—only consider.
Still, she would be lying to herself if she did not admit that an acute thrill had entered her heart at the prospect of marrying Jet. At this moment, perhaps, his eyes were on the crown, but she liked the thought that in time she could turn them to herself alone.
Being queen would be preferable, but a consort could wield as much influence, especially if she held the heart of the monarch in her hand and bore his heirs within her womb. Humming to herself, Elise left the summerhouse and hurried toward the house, suddenly impatient for her parents’ return.
ONCE THE NECESSARY LUGGAGE, including Firekeeper's falcon, was transported to the castle, Derian was given the rest of the day off. He suspected this was so Earl Kestrel could have a chance to work on Firekeeper by himself. Where once that would have troubled Derian, now he accepted it. If Firekeeper could only manage when he was there to defend her, then she was ill equipped to survive in this new world she had entered.
He wondered how much of her own practical view had influenced his thoughts on the matter, and then shrugged. Being free of the castle and of courtly constraints felt good. He had refused the earl's polite offer of a mount—horses were more trouble than they were worth within the city walls—and hurried down the cobbled streets on foot.
His parents’ livery stables were conveniently situated out-side the city walls, but their home was near Market Square. Today the market was in full swing and he grinned at himself for forgetting that, even as he enjoyed threading through the throng. A few moon-spans before he would have gone out of his way to avoid the crowds, but after his sojourn among the nobility he was glad to be back among the common people.
He immersed himself in the hubbub: the cries of the vendors praising their wares, the scolding of a mother when her child strayed, the pinging of the tinkers' hammers, the heated bartering on all sides. It moved him like music and he danced to it, his steps graceful and his heart light.
At one stall he bought a roll smeared with strawberry jam, at another sweets for his brother and sister, at another a basket of blackberries for his mother. He grinned when a farmer, known to him for years, raised his eyebrows as he noticed the Kestrel crest stamped on the reverse of the token offered in payment.
Derian himself had been fairly awed the first time he'd been given one of those—up until then his pocket money had been the more common guild tokens. Now he took the Kestrel tokens for granted. After all, he was now a retainer of House Kestrel and entitled to use their credit.
Whistling, his basket of berries on his arm, Derian strode down the street toward the lar
ge brick house with the cut-slate roof that had been in the Carter family for generations and which, in time, would pass to him. The front door, used only for formal occasions, was closed even on this hot afternoon, but the side door which led into the office was open. He paused in the street, heard his mother's voice rising and falling in the polite but firm tones she used for business, and passed around to the kitchen door.
His eight-year-old brother, Brock, light brown hair bleached from the summer sun, was teasing their sister Damita, who was sitting on the back steps, shelling sweet peas.
“Damita has a sweet-a,” the boy sang, dancing from foot to foot, “wants to meet ’im, at the square, but here she sits, shellin’ peas. Now do you think that's fair?”
Damita, at thirteen, was as red-haired as Derian, but whereas his own hair was darkening to a subdued auburn, her curls were coppery bright. When Derian had departed with Earl Kestrel, she had been a flat-chested, rambunctious imp, but in these three moon-spans she seemed to have suddenly changed. She looked more a young woman with her hair twisted on top of her head and the definite beginnings of a woman's bosom filling out her summer dress.
Derian paused, his hand on the latch of the white-painted board gate, feeling uncomfortably the stranger. The sensation was not relieved when Damita glanced over and, seeing him, said in polite, bored tones meant to cover her embarrassment at being found barefoot and doing kitchen work:
“May I help you, sir? Business enquiries should be made at the side…”
She stopped in midphrase, then erupted to her feet, pea shells flying everywhere. Nearly spilling the stoneware bowl on the step next to her, she darted down the flag stone walk, familiar again.
“Deri! Deri! You're back.”
Derian didn't remember opening the gate, but somehow he was inside, hugging her to him. Brock threw one arm around his older brother's waist and hammered on his shoulders, crowing happily.
The initial chaos past, they settled on the steps. Damita automatically began shelling peas again, but her mind wasn't on the job and several times Derian rescued a pod from amid the shucked vegetables.
“I hardly knew you,” Damita repeated, “you look so fine.”
Of course the leather breaches and heavy woolen shirts he had worn on the journey west wouldn't have done once the expeditionary party was settled at the keep and later at the Kestrel Manse. Earl Kestrel (or Valet, Derian suspected) had sent a new wardrobe along, some of the items not too different from the clothes Derian had worn in his parents’ ser-vice, some so elegant that they would be out of place anywhere but in court.
For his visit home, conscious that he was representing his new employer, Derian had donned knee-breeches and waist-coat, both of good cotton dyed walnut brown. These were worn over a bleached linen shirt, fine-knitsocks, and matching brass-buckled shoes. A striking tricorn hat of dark brown felt topped the assembly.
Damita ran a critical hand over the fabric of his waistcoat and nodded approvingly. “You look like a young gentleman, Deri. That's what I thought you were, standing there at the gate. I thought you'd come about hiring a horse or carriage.”
“And you look like a young lady,” Derian replied, happy to banish that initial strangeness by voicing it. “You're wearing your hair up now.”
“Mother bought me some barrettes for my birthday,” Damita answered, ducking her head so that he could admire the carved doe running through her copper locks/'and said that I could wear my hair up for occasions. I thought I was going to the market with Cook…”
She paused to glare at Brock, and Derian, remembering the scene he had interrupted, wisely kept silent.
“But Mother said these peas had to be shelled.”
Derian, who knew his mother's disciplinary tactics perfectly well, having been on the receiving end of them many times, filled in the picture. Damita had undoubtedly sassed Mother and, as a penalty, had not only been told she could not go to market, but that she must shell the vegetables.
He took a handful of peas from the basket resting between his sister's feet.
“Well, let me give a hand. C'mon, Brock, something wrong with you?”
Brock protested, “It's her job, not mine! I did my jobs: fed the chickens, weeded the kitchen garden, ran messages to the stables…”
Derian interrupted. “True enough, but one thing I learned when venturing west with the earl is that when there's a job to be done, everyone pitches in. Many's the night I've sat mending shirts by firelight so that we could hit the trail with the dawn.”
Brock, hearing the promise of a story, dropped onto the step on Derian's other side and dipped his hand into the basket of peas.
“Tell us all about it,” he commanded.
Vernita Carter found them all there about an hour later.
“Damita,” she said, her footsteps light as she crossed the stones of the kitchen floor, “the peas look wonderful and the carrots, too. Since you've finished the potatoes, I suppose you can go to the market for…”
She stopped, a sudden smile lighting her face. In her day, Vernita Carter had been regarded a great beauty. Even bearing several children and long days managing the family business had not robbed her of a certain grace and dignity.
“Derian,” she said softly, “why didn't you let me know you were home?”
“You had a client, ma'am,” he said, rising and giving her his best bow before impulsively hugging her. When had she grown so small? “And I was always told that nothing short of an emergency should interrupt that.”
“I think,” Vernita replied, drawing back to look him over proudly, “that the return home of my eldest son would qualify. Damita, has Cook come back?”
“No, Mother,” Damita said. “If you wish, I could run and find her.”
“Do. Tell her we will have an extra mouth for dinner.” Vernita gave her son an anxious glance. “You can stay, can't you, Deri?”
“For dinner, Mother, but I must return by bedtime.”
Vernita looked temporarily disappointed, but nodded. “Go then, Damita. Take a few spare tokens and buy us all some-thing special for dessert.”
“Deri brought blackberries,” Brock informed her, bringing the willow basket from the cool room to display the prize, “and candy.”
“Then buy something that will go well with them, Dami. I trust your judgment.” Vernita turned to her younger son. “Brock, run to the stables and tell your father Derian is here and that he's to come home early for dinner.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Like a little tawny whirlwind, the boy was gone. Vernita smiled.
“Let me shut the office door and put the sign out referring emergency business to the stables. Then we can have tea and you can tell me everything that has happened since you've been gone.”
“Three moon-spans in a few hours,” Derian protested with a grin. “Didn't you read my letters?”
“I did,” she said, pulling a grubby bundle from a drawer to show him. “We all did. Now you can tell us everything you didn't write.”
Derian, thinking how Earl Kestrel had sworn them all to secrecy regarding Firekeeper, nodded.
“There's more there than you might think,” he said.
Vernita grinned, a grin to match his own. “Oh, I don't know. We hear things, those of us in trade. And the rumors have been flying thick and fast today.”
Derian grinned back and began, “Our expedition did succeed, but only in a way…”
Leaving out nothing, for Norvin Norwood's version of the tale must already be leaking from the castle into the city, Derian told of his adventures, repeating a bit when his father and siblings returned, and talking steadily through dinner.
When he ended, there was silence. Then Vernita said softly, so softly that Derian wondered if he was meant to hear:
“Poor child…”
At first he thought she meant Firekeeper; then, catching her gaze, he had the uncomfortable feeling that she was thinking of him.
LATER THAT EVENING, Derian wal
ked toward the outer gates of the king's castle with his father. Colby Carter was a thick, broad-shouldered man with a deep inner stillness that came from understanding and working with draft horses and oxen. Brock took after him, while Derian and Damita more resembled their mother.
“I never thought I'd see a son of mine living here,” Colby admitted, “except maybe as a groom.”
“I'm hardly more, Father,” Derian reminded, “but tending to a wolf-woman and her beasts instead of to horses.”
“Maybe so,” Colby said. He thrust out a muscular, callused hand. “Don't stay away more than you must.”
“I won't,” Derian promised, wishing suddenly that he could remain longer with his family. “But my duty is yet to Earl Kestrel.”
“I know, son.” Colby started to turn away, then swung back. “Will your master be expecting you yet?”
“I have some time before I will be quite overdue,” Derian replied, puzzled.
“There are matters,” Colby continued heavily, “that I had thought to raise with you, but I preferred not to in front of the younger children. Damita is at a flighty age, quick to become moody. Better not give her more to brood upon than the imagined wrongs a girl her age is prone to. Brock is a good boy, but too inclined to chatter.”
“And Mother?”
“Knows all that concerns me in this matter,” Colby assured his son. “Even that I hoped to speak with you tonight. She won't be worrying if I don't come home at once.”
Derian looked down the road back toward the town. “We walked by several alehouses on our way.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Colby agreed.
A few minutes later found them seated in an out-of-the-way corner in a tavern still busy with the later elements of the market day trade, mostly visitors from out of town who had hawked their wares until dusk and would head for home with dawn. After the potboy had set two mugs of new summer ale in front of them and hurried off, Colby cleared his throat.
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