“Have you got Rohan’s gift ready?” Gaurin asked as Nalren began massaging his face to smooth out the wrinkles.
“I have,” Ashen said, “and I think you will be pleased with what I have chosen.” Ayfare was ministering similarly to Ashen and as a consequence her words were a little muffled as the Chatelaine massaged a different cream into the skin around her lips. “Ayfare put it in my jewel box for safekeeping.” The two women smiled at each other fondly; they had been friends since they were barely out of childhood.
Though Rohan had never made mention or complained of its absence, Ashen knew that Chieftain of the Sea-Rovers had always worn a particular badge of his office. Rohan’s grandfather Snolli had been the last to do so. “It’s a thumb ring. A special one.”
“Ah,” Gaurin said, understanding at once.
“All shined and polished, and fit for a Sea-Rover chieftain,” Ayfare said with the easy familiarity of long acquaintance. She set aside the jar of skin cream and began brushing Ashen’s long silver hair. When it was smoothed to her satisfaction, she would braid it in Nordorn fashion.
“Snolli set great store by his ring. It is still with him, wherever he may be.” Gaurin held his head steady for Nalren to begin applying a thin layer of cosmetics, a process he particularly hated. Nonetheless, it would not do for the King to appear pale and wan, so he suffered the tinted lotion and a dusting of rouge without protest.
Ashen likewise was receiving a slightly heavier layer of rouge to her cheeks and lips than usual. She had to admit that they both looked better and healthier with the applications; appearances must be maintained.
“The white silk is laid out,” Nalren told them. “Perhaps with red surcoats and mantle?”
“That is well thought on.”
As women’s styles had changed, so had men’s. Though men customarily went clean-shaven, the NordornKing now wore a neatly trimmed beard, a fashion that several in the court emulated. His doublets were padded to hide a certain gauntness, and his collars were high, to conceal the thinness of his neck. When Nalren finished dressing him, only a close eye could detect that he was no longer his hale and robust self.
Rather like me, Ashen thought. I am too thin. “Who is overseeing the preparation of the feast?” she asked.
“My assistant, Huldra,” Ayfare said.
“You trained her yourself,” Ashen commented. “Therefore, she is to be trusted with tonight’s important event.”
“When you have finished with your lady’s hair, would you bring the new Chieftain’s ring for my inspection?” Gaurin said.
“Yes, Sir.”
Ayfare put a few last touches on the shining looped braids she had arranged on Ashen’s head, set the small diadem in place, and went to do Gaurin’s bidding.
How clever Ayfare is, Ashen thought. The diadem, one of a matching pair made for the Nordorn monarchs, settled under the pile of braids as if an integral part of them; the midpoint of the band dipped lightly onto her forehead. A crystal snowflake glittered at the center, and in its heart glowed a fire-stone, one of the handful that remained of the crown of Cyornas NordornKing of reverent memory.
Neither Gaurin nor Ashen wore their own state crowns often these days. The spiked silver columns spangled with crystal snowflakes made for a precarious burden, and the bands encrusted with fire-stones rested on their heads far too heavily. The diadems sufficed.
Ayfare returned with the newly made ring for the Chieftain of the Sea-Rovers and laid it on Gaurin’s dressing table. As far as Ashen could tell, and working only from her memory, the goldsmith had duplicated the ring as closely as anyone could. Yet another fire-stone, of a size fit for wearing on the hand, adorned the broad band of the thumb ring. Ashen recalled how the original ring’s red stone seemed to flame in whatever light was to be had; perhaps it, too, had been a fire-stone, gleaned ages past from another dragon’s hoard. This one had been chosen from among the ones the Mother Ice Dragon had disgorged from her scales when she had been defeated. Rohan would be pleased.
Then Nalren and Ayfare helped Gaurin and Ashen into their festive clothing. Current styles for ladies dictated simply cut dresses with a snug bodice ending just below the bosom. The sleeves were separate items, laced in place, and these were lined with soft wool blended with silk. Over this went a crimson furtrimmed sleeveless coat. Her dress and Gaurin’s doublet were covered with embroidered silver snowflakes and on Gaurin’s there was also an embroidered silver snowcat wearing a silver collar—the badge of his house. On her skirt she bore the Ash badge—flame rising from a vessel of pure silver. The silver state necklaces set with the remainder of Cyornas’s fire-gems and coats of deep crimson warmed what might otherwise have been too cold an appearance for the two monarchs. Crimson mantles completed their attire.
Nalren placed Gaurin’s diadem on his silvery hair and settled it onto his forehead. He and Ashen drew on their gloves, arose from the dressing tables, and Gaurin took up his staff.
To Ashen’s secret amusement, both Nalren and Ayfare stepped back a pace, heads cocked appraisingly, so identical in attitude that she nearly smiled.
“Do we pass your muster?” she asked, unable to hold back the words.
“You both look very fine. Now, please do not over-do tonight. You need your rest.”
“I hear and obey,” Ashen said with a laugh.
Contentedly, Ashen took Gaurin’s arm and they left their apartment, there to be met by her ladies and his Court gentlemen. To the sound of welcoming trumpets, they descended into the Great Hall.
Two
Zazar customarily left the Great Hall as soon as she could, once the banquet was finished and the musicians had begun “The Song.” This evening, however, she wasn’t quick enough, and had actually been asked to dance—twice! And would have been again, had she not made a hasty, undignified exit.
Her bones creaked anew at the thought. But Gaurin himself had requested her to partner him, and Wysen-wyf or no, one did not refuse the NordornKing.
She had thought that would end her ordeal, but then she caught Lady Mjaurita whispering in Earl Royance’s ear. The answering mischievous smile on his face told her clearly that he also had in mind a turn around the circle of dancers. Unable to escape, she had acquiesced, thinking that she was surely the butt of many whispered jokes. Then, brooking no further delay, she hurriedly fled the Hall just as Bjaudin NordornPrince started to arise from the table, his intent plain.
Gratefully, she let herself in to her small apartment, located in the northeast tower high up where the great folk would not deign to reside. Her quarters had originally been intended as guard rooms, to be manned with soldiers in time of war. It was, possibly, the coldest of all such installations, though certain improvements such as glazed windows and heavy shutters made it habitable. On the other side of the room from the hearth, one’s breath showed plainly in the cold air, making it prudent to keep a hood drawn up over one’s head.
Zazar did not mind the cold, though she was grateful for the fire that was always kept going in the grate. And, of course, the garments of new-fangled snow-thistle silk, though she preferred sturdy garments sewn of the coarse variety.
Over the years, she had gradually turned the rooms into almost a replica of her old mud-and-daub hut back in the Bog, where Nayla, the current Wysen-wyf, now held sway. In place of snug mud walls, she had somewhat haphazardly stitched together old blankets and hung them on the chilly stone walls to act as insulation. Zazar had divided the room itself with another curtain made of more old blankets hung from a metal rod fastened to the corbels that supported the tower room’s roof. This set aside the area where she slept, also insulated with yet more of the old blankets.
Strings of dried and drying herbs hung from cords strung here and there around the main room, and she had cajoled castle carpenters to build shelves on which she could store jars of ground bones, seeds, dried leaves, the remains of an orb snake, a little box with a few precious threads, castings from the Loom of the Weavers. Another
box held divining bones.
On another shelf were arrayed jars and bottles of healing mixtures, herb-enriched salves, potions to dull pain whether from battle wounds or for women in labor, emetics and laxatives, soothers and binders. Here also was her jar of trade-pearls, items hard to come by but another habit even harder to break. Nayla always refused payment for the Web castings, but she would accept a gift of trade-pearls.
Two chairs were drawn up to the fire, and on one of them Weyse was curled up, sound asleep. As she was half again the size of a house cat, she filled the chair entirely. For once, the warkat Finola was not with her. Finola and Weyse had formed a well-nigh unbreakable bond many years ago, during the War of the Four Armies, against the Great Foulness. Nowadays, however, Finola was just as likely to be with her own cub as with Weyse.
Zazar took a twig from a jar on the hearth, touched it to the fire, and then lighted candles on the small table between the chairs, and the larger worktable in the middle of the crowded room. On the worktable stood her kettle, and nearby a basket full of reeds ready for soaking. She still wove reed mats, not because she needed them, but out of habit and for lack of anything better to do. She liked keeping her hands busy but did not care to indulge in the craze for the board game King’s Soldiers.
No longer did she need to boil mollusk glue to repair the thatch roof, nor did she need to make her tart lemongrass stew, thick with noodles, except when she had a hankering for it. Nowadays the kettle was used for soaking reeds, brewing potions and—rarely—for invoking the Ritual of Asking, that required a sprinkling of the precious Loom castings.
“It’s a soft life you have,” Zazar told herself aloud, pretending that she was speaking to Weyse. The unearthly creature drowsily opened her eyes, yawned, and shifted positions a little, asleep again almost before she settled.
A wicker-covered bottle on a shelf beside the fireplace caught her eye. Yes, if ever she had earned the comfort of a dram of that particular potion, it was tonight. Dancing—and at her age, too!
She took a goblet from another shelf and poured herself a generous portion. No tame spirits this; it was brandewijn she personally distilled from snowberry juice and used, much reduced in strength, in several of her best potions. This, however, was not diluted. The sharp, fruity aroma filled the little room and warmed her even before she set the rim of the goblet to her lips and took a hearty swallow. This brew was much better than the one she had used to make, back in the Bog, from whatever berries she could find in that inhospitable place, and the results were both tastier and more consistent.
Contentedly, and perhaps already feeling the effects of the brandewijn on top of the wine she had drunk at dinner, she took down yet another box from a low shelf, set it on the little table, sat down in the other chair, and began examining the contents.
Spurs. Real knight’s spurs. Zazar could still feel the touch of Gaurin NordornKing’s sword on her shoulders as, in gratitude for her part in vanquishing the Mother Ice Dragon, he had knighted her and made her a peer of the NordornLand.
Lady Zazar, she thought derisively. Or, perhaps, Dame Zazar. Sir Knight Zazar? She snorted and took another sip of brandewijn. The liqueur’s heat spread through her, vanquishing old, nearly forgotten aches, making her feel almost young again.
“He could have made me a baron, too, or perhaps a count,” she told Weyse. “Countess. But what would I do with the title? Fight Tordenskjold or Gangerolf for territory? That would be as useless as these.” She tossed the spurs back into the box.
Ashen NordornQueen had taken part in the ceremony as well, presenting her with the spurs. Pure silver they were, and only a fool would try to actually use them if the fool happened to own a horse, which she did not. They were strictly for show.
Ashen. Only when she had drunk a little brandewijn would Zazar allow herself to admit how fond she was of the girl—despite the fact that she was now a grandmother several times over, Ashen would always be a girl in Zazar’s eyes. And she was much too fond of Gaurin as well. No one but Gaurin would ever have been able to coax her out into the center of the Hall to dance.
Zazar had always regretted bitterly that she had no power to stop the relentless withering of Ashen’s and Gaurin’s right hands, the ones that had wielded the Dragon Blade when at last they had confronted the horrible, well-nigh unconquerable beast. It was a failing on her part and the soothing cream only a palliative. They were known as Their Maimed Majesties these days, and they accepted their titles with public grace and private resignation.
In a moment of self-pity for this failure, fueled by the brandewijn, Zazar told herself that they were ungrateful, that they had no real right to still be alive. The Mother Ice Dragon had all but killed Gaurin outright and Ashen had escaped only because something had told her to break the sword rather than try to kill the dragon.
They had both entered into legend.
Zazar hoped their children would live up to their parents’ legacy. Bjaudin she had doubts about; he was more the scholar than the warrior his father had been. Elin? There was something, well, unsettling about her. Mikkel was, Zazar thought, still too young to know. He was much more interested in playing that board game or going hunting with that Sea-Rover boy than thinking about his future.
Behind her, the box containing a small ball wound of the Web castings rattled a little on the shelf. Without glancing back, Zazar could see a faint glow reflected on the stones of the fireplace. That generally happened when there was some message for somebody the castings were eager to relate.
“Be quiet,” Zazar said firmly. “In my time, not yours.”
She finished the contents of the goblet, thought a moment, and then refilled it.
Duke Einaar watched from a window of the room he used as an office as the Duchess Ysa of Iselin came sweeping into the Castle of Fire and Ice much more regally than she had left it. Because her arrival was by land, she had come in her own carriage through Cyornasberg Gate, down Broad Street and through the barbican.
Her ladies would also be accompanying Ysa, though not in her carriage. With an effort, he remembered their names. Gertrude, Ingrid, Grisella, all well past their prime. They rode behind the carriage with Elin’s ladies, and behind them, Ysa’s House Troops in double file. Bringing up the rear was a wagon, piled with luggage.
Ysa’s Troops were still headed by old Lackel, now so ancient as to be well-nigh fabulous. Whatever the Duchess’s failings, Einaar mused, disloyalty to those who served her faithfully was not among them. Lackel looked too stooped and frail even to carry the sword at his side, Einaar observed, let alone wield it. He wondered how the old fellow could manage to stay on his horse.
The Troopers themselves were gray-haired but the only battles they might be expected to fight would be those of Court gossip and innuendo. Against them, men’s weapons were useless.
Down in the inner ward, Ysa was taking her time, unhurriedly descending from her carriage, helped by her ladies, settling her voluminous emerald green cloak about her shoulders, accepting her lapdog—a lapdog! Bringing something like that into a castle where warkats roamed freely? Einaar shook his head. Trust Ysa to create trouble in ways both small and large.
The hood slipped back, revealing Ysa’s face. Her Grace, Einaar noted, had aged far more than a woman of her years would have been expected to do. Deep wrinkles bracketed her mouth—still bravely painted scarlet—and scored her forehead. The skin of her neck drooped, even though Ysa had tried to hide it with a fur boa. Also, her shoulders were beginning to stoop, making her look shorter than she really was. He thought a moment, counting years. He was now in his late thirties. His brother Gaurin was some ten years older. Ashen was about forty-five. But Ysa actually looked older than Madame Zazar, who had lived uncounted years, though she had to be only in her mid-to late sixties—still comparatively young for a well-maintained upper-class woman.
Ysa was rumored to have dabbled widely in magic, using it to maintain the freshness of her first youth. There was always a price to
pay for such doings, Einaar thought, and he was now looking at it.
The Duchess paused, obviously making certain that her retinue had all arrived safely into the main ward of the inner keep, and Einaar knew that he must hurry down so he could be with the greeting party. Not to do so would have been an unforgivable breach of good manners, and even someone not so punctilious as Ysa would be sure to notice. He lingered only long enough to glimpse Princess Elin, also clad in green, emerging from the coach as well, and then headed for the stairs.
The NordornKing and NordornQueen were already waiting in the vestibule of the Great Hall with their own retinue around them. Einaar saw his wife Elibit just as she caught sight of him. She was with child again; the way her face lit up at his appearance always warmed him through and through. Young Yngvar stood at her side, decorous as always.
“My lord,” Elibit exclaimed, hurrying to his side. “You are almost late!”
“But not quite, my lady Duchess,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “And you, Yngvar. How goes my son and heir?”
“Very well, my lord father,” Yngvar replied gravely.
“I am pleased,” Einaar told him. The boy was very much like Einaar’s foster father, for whom he had been named. A good old man, worthy of better than he had received at the hands of Bergtora, Einaar’s mother. He hoped their new child would not be a girl; by custom, a girl would be named for her grandmother. He turned, a little belatedly, to his half-brother and Ashen.
The Knight of the Red Beard Page 3
