“It’s the climate,” one told her. “We all live long and healthy lives in Galazon, and it’s the climate that does it. You won’t do as well anywhere else.”
“She was born here, same as us,” another observed, “so stands to reason she ought to stay here, if she wishes to live as long as we do.”
“I did miss Galazon,” Faris said. “I’m glad I’ve come home. Now, isn’t there anything you need here? Come, be honest. Is the food always this good? Is it warm enough at night?”
“It’s the winter climate. That’s a fact. You live longer where the winters are properly cold.”
“Cold storage, you mean. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“Best stay here where you belong, young one.”
And that was the longest conversation Faris had.
In the sleigh returning to Galazon Chase, Faris looked gladly around her. After days of overcast, the sky seemed wonderfully blue. After so long in Queen Matilda’s dim chamber, the snow crust over the fallow meadows seemed dazzlingly bright.
Faris glanced over at Brinker and discovered something that amazed her. He, her wicked uncle, was watching the meadows and the woods as he drove with the same half smile her mother used to have. The same half smile, very likely, she herself had at moments like this. He was enjoying the weather, certainly, but that smile had something more behind it. Something that looked very like love to Faris. It seemed that even Wicked Uncle Brinker, in his own fashion, loved Galazon.
On impulse Faris asked, “What’s going to happen to Galazon?”
Brinker looked bemused. He tilted his head a little as he looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. What’s going to happen to Galazon?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you what I think will happen, if you like.” After a thoughtful pause, Brinker continued, without taking his eyes from the bays’ progress. “I think, taking your age and experience into account, you will make an excellent ambassador. You will return from Aravill as soon after you reach your majority as duty permits. I cannot tell precisely how much autonomy Galazon will have from Aravill. Much depends upon what you achieve in Aravis. No matter. You will rule wisely and well. You will marry and have children and they will rule wisely and well.”
“And you? Once I come of age, what of you?”
Brinker sighed gently. “I have spent many years working for Galazon on your behalf. I grudge neither the time nor the effort, don’t think it. But I look forward to working on my own behalf. When Galazon is yours, I will be free to turn my attention to broader horizons.”
“What do you mean?”
Brinker smiled inscrutably.
Faris regarded him with interested suspicion for a moment, then reached a conclusion. “Aravis. You’ve set your sights on the throne.”
“The throne is not vacant.”
Despite his words, Brinker’s smile confirmed all Faris’s suspicions. “You’ll take your wife and daughter to Aravis and wait for Julian to die. Let’s see. Prince Consort sounds rather imposing. Or will you demand a different title? Something more impressive?”
Brinker merely smiled.
Faris’s eyes narrowed. If his ambitions stretched beyond the borders of Galazon, perhaps he did not have the obvious reasons to eliminate her after all. “Did you pay someone to kill me, Uncle?”
Brinker’s reaction was as annoying as she’d assumed it would be. He regarded her quizzically, head tilted in mild inquiry. “Why would I do that?”
“For Galazon.”
“You know, I wondered at your reaction the other day. You puzzled me. After some consideration, it occurred to me that you might have some idea that I was at fault. But why would I need to pay someone to kill you when I could have done it myself long ago? And if I had paid someone to kill you, why on earth would I prevent him just as he was about to succeed?”
“You still haven’t said you didn’t.”
They were nearing a village, but Brinker took his attention off the road long enough to meet her eyes. He looked grave and reliable. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I won’t. I need you, Faris. Trust that much, if you can’t trust me.”
Faris held his gaze. “Why are you sending me to Aravis?”
Brinker returned to his driving. “I’ve told you that. Tell me this. Why are you going so meekly?”
Faris surveyed the village as they passed and returned the greetings she received. “It is my duty. Just as it was my duty to return when you summoned me from Greenlaw.”
Brinker laughed softly. “Yes, of course. You are very careful to do your duty when it pleases you to do so. You weren’t so conscientious about your duty when I sent you to Greenlaw.”
“I didn’t want to leave Galazon.”
“You certainly did not.”
They were clear of the village. Faris frowned. “Why did you send me? I’ve always wondered. If it was just to be rid of me, there are any number of boarding schools—why Greenlaw?”
“Your mother’s will was quite specific.”
“You wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop you.”
“Your trustees would have. Bankers can be so inflexible. No, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the real reason was your reaction. The prospect alarmed and angered you. I rather enjoyed that. And it pleased me to insure your admission. Though I admit I was a trifle disappointed that you didn’t find some way to foil my plans and come home. I looked forward to shipping you back again.”
“They made it clear that your effort ‘to insure my admission’ had nothing to do with my acceptance. They intended to return the money with a stinging message.”
“I received neither money nor message.”
“The money was set aside in case there was a delay in my tuition payments.”
Something in her tone brought Brinker’s attention sharply back to her. “At your suggestion?”
Faris nodded.
“How thoughtful. Let’s see. As I recall, the last tuition payments were wired promptly to Greenlaw. So your account would have shown a substantial credit when you left. What became of the money?”
Faris said dreamily, “Traveling is so expensive these days.” She thought of Jane and added, “You’ve no notion.”
Brinker was all affability. “You spent it. Of course. And you’ve taken that foreigner into your personal service. You’ll find that sort of extravagance comes dearer than you think.”
Faris wished to challenge her uncle on that provocative remark, but she had not yet finished with her questions. There was no telling if she would ever find him in such a forthcoming mood again. She preserved her dreamy tone with an effort. “You know about all sorts of extravagance, I imagine. What particular sort was it that increased the taxes so? I have yet to see a sign of where the money might have gone. Not a bridge or a road or even an almshouse that I don’t remember.”
“You really can’t expect me to go into the technicalities with you here.”
“Why not? How technical can it possibly be? Is Aunt Agnes so expensive?”
“I had hoped that Greenlaw College would train you out of that vulgar inquisitiveness of yours.”
“If anything, they trained me to cultivate it. Come, Uncle. There’s still time before we reach Galazon Ducis. Tell me.”
“You needn’t keep asking and asking.”
“Oh, but I do, for you don’t answer.”
“There’s answer enough for you. Make do with that.”
“No answer? Well, that’s honest at least. I’ll reward you.”
“You’ll hold your tongue?”
“Never. But I’ll ask a new question.”
Brinker sighed. “If you must. I’ll answer if I can—and if you answer a question of mine.”
Faris thought the offer over and agreed. “Tell me then, where did the carpet in the library come from?”
The question startled Brinker into laughter. “That’s simply answered. It came with the rest of my bride’s things. My turn.”
“Not quite yet. Where did it come from?”
“Why, from Aravis. From the palace. It’s rather valuable, in fact. It was one of the very few things they managed to save from the throne room fire.”
“What fire?”
“What fire? Why, the great fire. The fire that destroyed the throne room and killed your grandmother. The fire that nearly consumed all Aravis. Have you had no education at all?”
Faris’s silence lasted until they reached Galazon Ducis. There she was kept busy returning salutations with the proper degree of interest and recognition.
They left the village behind. Scarcely a mile from the gate-house at Galazon Chase, Brinker asked, “Is it my turn now?”
Faris regarded him with suspicion. There was a bright edge to his voice she did not care for. “I may make use of your own answer.”
“No answer? Fair enough. I’ll draw my own conclusions. Riddle me this, Faris. How are you most like your mother? In your unswerving devotion to your duty? Or in your unswerving devotion to a menial paramour?”
Faris blinked. This time there was no ignoring the provocation. In some remote part of her brain she retained just enough grasp on her temper to consider the possibility that there might be some alternative to losing it. No. The question didn’t merit a civil answer. And anything short of the response he expected—outrage—would leave Brinker wondering if he had chanced upon a secret of hers.
Brinker held the reins and the whip firmly. He expected her anger, that was plain from the way he slowed the pair and steadied them, ready to calm them if she screamed out her rage. It was all too evident, from his bright-eyed interest, that he expected her to scream.
Faris blinked again, and said huskily, “Why, neither. I am most like my mother in this.” Before he could free his hands of whip and reins, Faris cast her muff aside and hit Brinker in the eye.
When he slackened his grip, she wrenched the whip from him. It was too long to be of use at close quarters, but she managed to startle one of the bays. That tied up Brinker’s hands with the reins again, so she was able to prod him hard in the ribs with the butt of the whip. Out of breath and off balance, he released the reins and the sleigh veered off the road. Faris kicked free of the carriage rug tucked over her knees. If the sleigh tipped, she would have to jump.
Earlier in the day, the bays, well-rested and well-fed, might have bolted. Now, although alarmed by the driver’s bad behavior, they were headed home along a road they knew well. The lure of the stable brought them back into the road and they picked up speed.
For thirty seconds Faris wrestled Brinker in grim silence. Brinker had the advantage of her in strength, but not in determination. He had the response he was after, and he was enjoying it. Even as he struggled with her, he could not keep from laughing. At most, he wanted her indignation to subside a little, just enough to let him drive her safely home. She, on the other hand, wished only to prod him out of the sleigh, out of her sight. Rage ruled her.
A lucky blow landed, and Brinker let himself fall free into the snow. Faris gathered up the reins, but instead of soothing the horses, she urged them on. She spared a glance over her shoulder. Brinker was on his feet, still laughing as he dusted snow from his caped driving coat. As she watched, he bent to retrieve his fallen top hat.
The road curved. Brinker was left behind to trudge home alone. Faris let the bays enjoy another quarter mile at full speed, then drew them back to a respectable pace. It would never do to bring them in blown and sweating.
At the stable, Faris turned the bays over to the head groom’s lad and ordered a horse to be saddled. She spared a moment’s wistful thought for the riding clothes from Shieling, then altered the order to a side-saddle. The merino gown was no riding habit, but it would do well enough. She was still too furious to linger for such trifles. “And send someone along the Alewash road with a horse for my uncle.”
The lads moved to obey her, trading glances. The head groom dared to ask, “Has there been an accident? The bays don’t seem to be upset.”
Faris flashed a smile that silenced him. “It is such a lovely day. My uncle said he preferred to walk, but I’m sure he’s changed his mind by now.”
Her mount, a neat gray mare with the hocks of a hunter, was brought forth and the head groom put Faris up. She arranged her coat and skirts as well as she could, aware that she presented an absurd appearance. “Is the track open to the Spinney Bridge road?” She handed the head groom the last of her shawls and the white-work scarf.
He accepted them with aplomb. “It is. They brought the mail that way this morning.”
“Good. I’ll be back in an hour, or perhaps a little longer.”
For miles Faris rode, trying to calm herself. The well-trampled track led her into the hills south of the manor. A wind had risen at her back. It pushed her hair forward so it got into her eyes. The sky was still clear ahead of her, but clouds were edging in from the north. She reached the road and turned toward Spinney Bridge.
She tried to find some comfort in the emptiness of the snow-covered hills and meadows. Her pleasure in the landscape, in the sunlight, in the clarity of the sky, had vanished. She wanted to regain some of the calmness she’d had that morning. She tried to take comfort in the clear sky to the south, to gaze into blue, to think of nothing. She failed completely. Eventually her anger with Brinker burned away and left her no distraction from her anger with herself.
She had let him do it again. Despite her resolve to use the sleigh ride to question him, she had allowed him to turn the tables on her. To reveal her anger was to give him a weapon as tangible as a knife or a gun. How was she to face him again, knowing she had armed him herself?
And why had she let him do it? What had he said, to flick her on the raw? A reference to the old lies about her mother—she should be used to such slanders. A reference to Tyrian—what was there in that to anger her? Or was she angry on Tyrian’s behalf? Could there be some seed of truth in Brinker’s words?
Menial. Paramour. She did not know which word was more absurd. Taken together, they were so far from truth that she had to laugh. Yet the words had served Brinker’s purpose. They had ended her interrogation.
Faris shook her head and laughed again. She had done her uncle good service today. She could only do better if she broke her neck riding or stayed out sulking in the cold until she caught a chill. She halted at the stone arch of Spinney Bridge and sat motionless in the saddle, listening to the wind and trying to remember the last time she’d been free to go riding alone. Certainly not since she’d left for Greenlaw. Years.
On the wind, Faris caught the sound of another rider approaching. She looked back and saw Tyrian riding toward her at a steady and sensible gait. Her hands jerked and her mare tossed its head in protest. She stifled the urge to ride on at top speed. Her freedom was gone. She was no longer alone. Fleeing Tyrian would be as impossible as fleeing her shadow. It was foolish to have started without him. She collected herself and turned the mare back.
Rational thought lasted as long as it took to cover the ground between them. When she met him, Faris demanded, “Are you going to follow me around this way for the rest of my life?”
“Probably.” Tyrian betrayed neither surprise nor irritation at her rudeness. Instead, as she was about to speak again, he handed her the gauntlets she’d worn on the ride from Shieling.
Faris felt something twist in her throat. Surprise, certainly. Gratitude. And something more that she did not dare to consider closely enough to put a name to. Silenced for a moment, she accepted the gloves, pulled them on, and thanked him with a stiff nod. Her mare sidled, torn between distaste for moving into the rising wind and longing for its stable. Faris urged it forward.
Tyrian said nothing. He simply turned his horse and followed her at a respectful distance.
Faris drew rein. “Ride beside me. I want to talk to you.” Tyrian obeyed but for several minutes Faris said nothing. Finally, with great reluctance, she managed to ask, “What do they s
ay of me?”
“Who, your grace?”
“Don’t—you needn’t be formal. What do the servants say?”
“Nothing.”
In the north, the sky had gone solidly gray and looked low enough to touch. Riding homeward took them into the teeth of the wind. Faris felt her face growing red and could not decide if cold or embarrassment were more to blame. She asked, “Nothing at all? No rumors?”
“I am an outsider. Reed could give you better intelligence. They are at ease with him. He banters.”
His light tone irritated Faris. “I would rather have intelligence from someone who listens than from someone who talks. Have you heard no gossip?”
“None worth repeating.”
“I’m ordering you to repeat it.”
Tyrian looked resigned. “Very well. Most recently, I have heard that you strangled your uncle and threw him from your sleigh. You then returned the sleigh and horses to the stable in good condition and went for a refreshing canter. You left without changing into riding clothes, without troubling even to ask for a pair of gloves.”
When Faris said nothing, Tyrian continued. “I think it was that, more than concern for your security, that made me follow you.”
Faris stared. “To bring me a pair of gloves?”
“I thought something might be wrong.” He waited for her denial. When it didn’t come, he smiled a little. “I think I must have been mistaken.”
Faris squinted into the wind. “So they think I tried to strangle my uncle. Do they know why?”
“They don’t care why. They are more concerned with why you haven’t done it long since. Why did you try to strangle him?”
“I didn’t try to strangle him. I just pushed him out of the sleigh. Let us go on to other gossip, not so dangerously fresh. What do they say of my aunt?”
“She’s a fine lady, for a foreigner. She dislikes Galazon and would be happier living in Aravis. Galazon would be happier if she were living in Aravis too. She’s resolved her daughter will rule Galazon one day, if she has to kill you to bring that about. She tried in the library that first night, it’s said, but you sneered at her and the bullet went astray.”
A College of Magics Page 23
