Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  At the end of the hall we trod up more stairs, wide, shallow, and tiled, passing beneath a domed glass ceiling. Around me small, carefully tended trees grew in pots.

  Beyond those to another hall, with four doors—not woven doors, but real colorwood ones—redwood, bluewood, goldwood, greenwood—beautifully carved and obviously ancient.

  The servants opened one and bowed me into a round-walled room that meant we were in a tower; windows on three sides gave a magnificent view over the valley far below. The room was flooded with light, so much that I was dazzled and had to blink. Shading my eyes, I had a swift impression of a finely carved and gilded redwood table surrounded by blue satin cushions. Then I saw that the room was occupied.

  Standing between two of the windows, almost hidden by slanting rays of sun, was a tall figure with pale blond hair.

  The marquis was looking down at the valley, hands clasped behind him. At the sound of the door closing he turned around and approached me, a silhouette in the strong sunlight.

  I stood with my back to the door. We were alone.

  “Welcome to Renselaeus, Lady Meliara.” And when I did not answer, he pointed to a side table. “Would you like anything to drink? To eat?”

  “Why am I here?” I asked in a surly voice, acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look dressed in his livery. “You may as well get the threats out at once. All this politeness seems about as false as…” As a courtier’s word, I thought, but speech wouldn’t come and I shook my head.

  He returned no immediate answer; instead seemed absorbed in pouring wine from a fine silver decanter into two jewel-chased goblets. One he held out silently to me.

  I wanted to refuse, but I needed somewhere to look and something to do with my hands, and I thought hazily that maybe the wine would clear my head. All of the emotions of the past days seemed to be fighting for prominence in me, making rational thought impossible.

  He raised his cup in salute and took a drink. “Would you like to sit down?” He indicated the table. The light fell on the side of his face. Like that first morning we came down from the mountain, I saw the marks of fatigue under his eyes.

  “No,” I said, and gulped some wine to fortify myself. “Why aren’t you getting on with the sinister speeches?” I had started off with plenty of bravado, but then a terrible thought occurred, and I squawked, “Bran—”

  “No harm has come to your brother,” he said quickly. “I am endeavoring to find the best way to express—”

  I slammed the goblet down onto a side table, and to hide my sudden fear—for I didn’t believe him—I said as truculently as possible, “If you’re capable of simple truth, just spit it out.”

  “Your brother has agreed to a truce,” the marquis started.

  “Truce? What do you mean, a ‘truce’?” I snarled. “He wouldn’t surrender, he wouldn’t, unless you forced him by threats—”

  “I have issued no threats. It was only necessary to inform him that you were on your way here. He agreed to join us, for purposes of negotiation—”

  A sun seemed to explode behind my eyes. “You’ve got Bran? You used me to get my brother?”

  “He’s here,” the marquis said, but he didn’t get any further.

  Giving a wail of sheer rage, I plucked a heavy silver candleholder and flung it straight at his head.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He caught it one-handed, and set it gently in its place.

  I clenched my teeth together to keep from screaming.

  The marquis stepped to the door, and opened it. “Please bring Lord Branaric here.”

  Then he sat down in one of the window seats and gazed out as though nothing had happened. I turned my back and glared out the other window, and a long, terrible silence drained my wits entirely until the door was thrust open by an impatient hand; and there was my brother, tall, thinner than I remembered, and clean. “Mel!” he exclaimed.

  “Bran,” I squawked, and hurled myself into his arms.

  After a few incoherent questions on my part, he patted my back then held me out at arm’s length. “Here, Mel, what’s this? You look like death’s cousin! Where’d you get that black eye? And your hands—” He turned over my wrists, squinting down at the healing rope burns. “Curse it, what’s toward?”

  “Debegri,” I managed, laughing and crying at once. “Oh, Bran, that’s not the worst of it. Look at this!” I stuck out my bare foot to show the purple scars. “That horrid trap—”

  “We pulled ‘em all out.” He grimaced. “It was the Hill Folk sent someone to tell us about you—that’s a first, and did it scare me!—but by the time we got down the mountain, you were gone. I’m sorry, Mel. You were right.”

  “I was s-s-s-stupid. I got caught, and now we’re both in trouble,” I wailed into his shoulder.

  The carved door snicked shut, and I realized we were alone. I gave a great sob that seemed to come up from my dusty bare toes, and all those pent-up emotions stormed out. Bran sighed and held me for a long time, until at last I got control again and pulled away, hiccupping. “T-Tell me how everyone is, and what happened?”

  “Khesot, Julen, both are fine. Hrani cut up bad, but coming through. We lost young Omic and two of those Faluir villagers. That was when we tried a couple of runs on the greenie camp. Afterward, though, we got up Debegri’s nose but good,” he said with a grin. “Ho! I don’t like to remember those early days. Our people were absolutely wild, mostly mad at me about those accursed traps. After our second run, Shevraeth sent a warning under truce. Said you were on your way to Remalna-city, and we should hole up against further communication. Then we found out that the king had gone off on one of his tantrums—apparently wasn’t best pleased to find that this fop of a marquis had done better in two weeks than his cousin had in two months, and gave the command back to Debegri. We enjoyed that.” He grinned again, then winced. “Until Azmus appeared. Nearly killed himself getting to our camp. Told us about the king’s threat, and your escape, and that you’d disappeared and he couldn’t find you. Debegri left, with half his army, and we knew it was to search for you. We waited for word. Bad time, there.”

  “You think it was bad…” I started.

  “Mmm.” He hugged me again. “Tell me.”

  Vivid images chased through my mind: Shevraeth over the campfire; Galdran’s throne room and that horrible laughter; the escape; what Ara’s mother said; that fortress. I didn’t know how to begin, so I shook my head and said, “Never mind it now. Tell me more.”

  He shrugged, rubbing his jaw. “Shevraeth sent us a message about six days ago, white flag, said he had you and wanted to discuss the situation with me—on our ground. He knew where we were! And next morning, there they were. We met at the Whitestream bridge. His people on one side, ours on the other. I was as itchy as a cat in dogland, afraid one or the other side would let loose on either me or him and either way there’d be blood for certain. He strolled out like it was a ballroom floor, cool as you please, said you were safe in his care—what’s that?”

  “I said, ‘Hah!’”

  He grinned. “Well, anyhow, he told me that Debegri was promised not only our lands but a dukedom if he could flush us out once and for all. Baron plans to fire us out, soon’s the rains end. Shevraeth promised safe passage to and from Renselaeus—on his word—if I came along with him for a talk. He told me you were on your way, and said if I came, whatever we decided, you could return to Tlanth with me. Didn’t see any way around it, so—” He lifted his hands. “Here I am. Rode all day for two days, and all night last night, got here this morning. Must say, he’s been decent enough—”

  “I hate him and those Court smirkers!” I cried. “Hate, hate, hate—”

  The door opened behind us, and we both whirled around rather guiltily.

  A servant appeared. “My lord, my lady, His Highness Prince Alaerec requests the honor of your company at dinner. Should you wish to prepare, we are instructed to provide everything necessary. “

  Bran chuck
led. “Wait until you see the bath they have here! One of these ice-faced Renselaeus toffs has to have been thick as thieves with a first-rate mage. No lowly bathhouses for this gang.”

  My face burned flame-hot by then, but Bran didn’t notice. “I’ll have a little of that wine while you go on,” he added, rubbing his hands.

  This left me with nothing to do but follow the servant down the hall and down one level of stairs to another hall. He opened a door, bowed, waited until I passed him, then closed the door again.

  This left me in a room I had never seen anything even remotely like.

  It reminded me of a stream in a forest. Trees grew alongside a wide running bath, all tiled and blue and clean. High windows let in clear light. Magic, indeed! I moved to the edge of the eddying water, dipped a hand in, and found that the water was warm. Lots of magic.

  A quiet rustle announced the appearance of three maidservants gowned in blue and white. “My lady, His Highness sends his compliments and begs you to make use of Her Highness’s wardrobe.”

  I thought of that imperious voice at the palace and tried not to laugh. The change from oversized livery to an elderly lady’s court frills and furbelows would probably manage to make me look more ridiculous than ever. But what alternative was there? My own clothes—such as they were—had been burned by Ara’s mother a long time ago.

  As soon as I was in that bath, these worries were soothed away from my mind as the various aches were soothed from my body. It felt as if I were sitting in a rushing stream, only the water was warm, and soft as finespun silk, and the soaps were subtly scented and made my skin glow. Everything was laid out for me, from comb to teeth cleaner.

  There was even a salve to work through one’s hair, one of the maids pointed out. She did it for me (which almost put me right to sleep, tired as I was) and afterward, the comb seemed to slide right through my hair.

  Then, wrapped in a cape-sized towel that had been kept warm on heatstones, I followed the maids into an adjacent room as large as the bath. There were trunks and trunks of fabrics of every type and hue.

  Feeling like a trespasser, I fingered through the nearest, stopping when I saw a gown of green velvet. Tiny golden birds had been embroidered at the neck and down either side of the bodice laces. The sleeves, unlike the present fashions, were narrow, and embroidered at the cuffs. Tiny slits had been made at shoulders and elbows to pull through tufts of the silken underdress of pale gold. The fabrics whispered richly as the maids helped me to pull them on without tangling my hair, which hung, wet and free, to my knees. When the overdress settled around me, I discovered that the princess was not much larger than I, which made me want to laugh.

  Someone brought slippers, and I thought of Julen as I put them on and laced them. They were tight—the princess obviously had tiny feet—but they were so soft it didn’t much matter. Certainly they fit better than the outgrown mocs I’d gotten from the blacksmith’s son.

  When the gown was laced and the sleeves adjusted, one of the maids brought out a mirror. I looked in surprise at myself; the gown made me look taller, but nothing could make me seem larger. My face appeared old to my eyes, and kind of grim, the black eye ridiculous.

  I turned away quickly. “I’m ready. Where is my brother?”

  In answer one of the maids bowed and scurried out the door, her steps soundless on the tiles. One of the others bore away Nessaren’s clothes, and the third opened a door for me and bowed; their scrupulous deference in addition to that fancy gown made me feel like a fraud. I was afraid I’d forget about the train dragging behind me, trip, and go rolling down the stairs, so I grabbed fistfuls of skirt at either side and walked carefully after her.

  “Ho, Mel! You look like you’re treading on knives.” Branaric’s voice came from behind me.

  “Well, I don’t want to ruin this gown. Isn’t mine,” I said.

  He grinned, and we were led down another level to an elegant room with a fire at one end and windows looking out over the valley. The sun was setting, and the scene below was bathed in the rosy-golden light.

  We went forward. There were cushioned benches on either side of the fire, and directly before it a great carved chair. Shevraeth rose from one of the benches, making a gesture of welcome. Indicating the chair, in which sat a straight-backed old man dressed in black velvet, he said, “Father, I have the honor of introducing Lady Meliara Astiar.” And to me, in the suavest voice, as if I hadn’t flung a candleholder at his head a little while before, “Lady Meliara, my father, Prince Alaerec.”

  The old man nodded slowly and with great dignity. He had keen dark eyes, and white hair which he wore loose on his shoulders in the old-fashioned way, though he did not wear the mustache popular among the older men at Court. “My dear, please forgive me if I do not rise. I am afraid I do not get about with ease or grace anymore.”

  I felt an impulse to bow, and squashed it. I remembered that Court women sweep curtseys—something my mother had tried once to teach me, when I was six. I also remembered that I was there against my will—a prisoner, despite all the fine surroundings and polite talk—so I crossed my arms and said, “Don’t think you have to walk about on my behalf.”

  Bran gave me a slightly bemused look and bobbed an awkward bow to the old man.

  A servant came forward, silent and skillful, and passed out goblets of wine. The prince saluted me, followed by Bran and Shevraeth. I grabbed my goblet and took a big gulp that made my nose sting.

  In a slow, pleasant voice, Prince Alaerec asked mild questions—weather, travel, Bran’s day and how he’d filled it. I stayed silent as the three of them worked away at this limping conversation. The Renselaeus father and son were skilled enough at nothing-talk, but poor Bran stumbled over half his words, sending frequent glances at me. In the past I’d often spoken for both of us, for truth was he felt awkward with converse and was somewhat shy with new people, but I did not feel like speaking until I’d sorted my emotions out—and there was no time for that.

  To mask his own uncertainty, my brother gulped at the very fine wine they offered. A servant announced that dinner was ready, and the old prince rose slowly, leaning on a cane. His back was straight, though, as he led the way to a dining room. Bran and I followed. I stepped carefully, my skirts bunched in either hand.

  Bran snickered, his face flushed. “Life, Mel, are you supposed to walk like that?” He snickered again, swallowed the rest of his third glass of wine, then added, “Looks like you got eggs in those shoes.”

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk,” I mumbled, acutely aware of that bland-faced, elegantly dressed marquis right behind us, and elbowed Bran in the side. “Stop laughing! If I drop these skirts, I’ll trip over them.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for riding gear?”

  “And a coach-and-six while I was at it? This is what they gave me.”

  “Well, it looks right enough,” he admitted, squinting down at me. “It’s just—seeing you in one of those fancy gowns reminds me of—”

  I didn’t want to hear what it reminded him of. “You’re drunk as four skunks, you idiot,” I muttered, and not especially softly, either. “You’d best lay it aside until you get some food into you.”

  He sighed. “Right enough. I confess, I didn’t think you’d really get here—thought that there’d be another bad hit.”

  “Well, I don’t see we’re all that safe yet,” I said under my breath.

  The dining room was formidably elegant—I couldn’t take it in all at once. A swift glance gave the impression of the family colors, augmented by gold, blended with artistry and grace. The table was high, probably to accommodate the elderly prince. The chairs, one for each diner, were especially fine—no angles, everything curves and ovals and pleasing lines.

  The meal, of course, was just as good. Again I left the others to work at a polite conversation. I bent my attention solely to my food, eating a portion of every dish offered, until at last—and I never thought it would happen again, so long it had
been—I was truly stuffed.

  This restored a vestige of my customary good spirits, enough so that when the prince asked me politely if the dinner had been sufficient, and if he could have anything else brought out, I smiled and said, “It was splendid. Something to remember all my life. But—” I realized I was babbling, and shut up.

  The prince’s dark eyes narrowed with amusement, though his mouth stayed solemn—I knew I’d seen that expression before. “Please. You have only to ask.”

  “I don’t want a thing. It was more a question, and that is: If you can eat like this every day, why aren’t you fatter than five oxen?”

  Bran set his goblet down, his eyes wide. “Burn it, Mel, I was thinking the very same!”

  That was the moment I realized that, though our rank was as high as theirs, or nearly, and our name as old, Branaric and I must have sounded as rustic and ignorant as a pair of backwoods twig gatherers. It ruined my mood. I put my fork down and scrutinized the prince for signs of the sort of condescending laughter that would—no doubt—make this a rich story to pass around Court as soon as we were gone.

  Prince Alaerec said, “During my peregrinations about the world, I discovered some surprising contradictions in human nature. One of them is that, frequently anyway, the more one has, the less one desires.”

  His voice was mild and pleasant, and impossible to divine any emotion therefrom. I turned for the first time to his son, to meet that same assessing gaze I remembered from our first encounter. How long had that been trained on me?

  Now thoroughly annoyed, I said, “Well, if you’re done listening to us sit here and make fools of ourselves, why don’t we get on to whatever it is you’re going to hold over our heads next?”

  Neither Renselaeus reacted. It was Bran who blinked at me in surprise and said, “Curse it, Mel, where are your wits at? Didn’t Shevraeth tell you? We’re part of their plan to kick Galdran off his throne!”