Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  Shaking my head, I banished the dreams of avarice, and returned to the letter—not that much remained.

  …so, outfit yourself in whatever you want, appoint someone responsible as steward, and join me here at Athanarel as soon as you can. Everyone here wants to meet you.

  “Now, that’s a frightening thought,” I said grimly.

  And I think it’s time for you to make your peace with Vidanric.

  He ended with a scrawled signature.

  I lowered the letter slowly to the desk, not wanting to consider why I found that last suggestion even more frightening than the first.

  Behind Bran’s letter, bearing three official-looking seals, was the Letter of Intent. In very beautiful handwriting, it named in precise terms a sum even higher than I’d dared to let myself think of, the remainder after the taxes for the army had been subtracted. Wondering who was getting that sum, which was even greater, I scanned the rest, which outlined in flowery language pretty much what Branaric had said. It seemed we now had a business house handling our money; previously I’d gathered the scanty sums and redispersed them myself, in coin.

  I put that letter down, too. Possibilities now available began multiplying in my mind. Not visiting Athanarel. I didn’t even consider that; I’d tried to win a crown, and lost. But supposedly all the wrongs I had fought for were being addressed, and so—I vowed—I was done with royal affairs.

  No, I told myself, my work now was Tlanth, and with this money, all my plans could be put into action. Rebuilding, new roads, booksellers…I looked around at the castle, no longer seeing the weather damage and neglect, but how it would look repaired and redecorated.

  “Oria!” I yelled, running downstairs. “Oria! Julen! Calaub! We’re rich!”

  PART TWO – COURT DUEL

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stood at my window, an old but comfortable blanket wrapped about me. The warmth of the low midwinter sun through the new paned glass was pleasant as I read again the letter that had arrived that day.

  Esteemed Countess Meliara:

  I have had the pleasure of meeting, and entertaining, your estimable brother, Count Branaric of Tlanth. At every meeting he speaks often and fondly of his sister, who, he claims, was the driving spirit behind the extraordinary events of last year.

  He also promised that you will come join us at Court, but half a year has passed, and we still await you. Perhaps the prospect of life at the Palace Athanarel does not appeal to you?

  There are those who agree with this sentiment. I am one myself. I leave soon for my home in Merindar, where I desire only to lead a quiet life. It is with this prospect in mind that I have taken up my pen; I would like, very much, to meet you. At Merindar there would be time, and seclusion, to permit leisurely discourse on subjects which have concerned us both—especially now, when the country has the greatest need of guidance.

  Come to Merindar. We can promise you the most pleasant diversions.

  I await, with anticipation, your response—or your most welcome presence.

  And it was signed in a graceful, flourishing hand, Arthal Merindar.

  A letter from a Merindar. I had brought about her brother’s defeat. Did she really want friendship? I scanned it for perhaps the tenth time. There had to be a hidden message.

  When I came to the end, I gazed out my window. The world below the castle lay white and smooth and glistening. We’d had six months of peace. Though the letter seemed friendly enough, I felt a sense of foreboding, as if my peace was as fragile as the snowflakes outside.

  “Looking down the southwest road again, Meliara?”

  The voice startled me. I turned. My oldest friend, Oria, had lifted my door tapestry. Though I was the countess and she the servant, we had grown up together, scampering barefoot every summer through the mountains, sleeping out under the stars, and dancing to the music of the mysterious Hill Folk. Until last winter, I’d only had Oria’s cast-off clothing to wear; now I had a couple of remade gowns, but I still wore the old clothes to work in.

  She smiled a little as she lifted the tapestry the rest of the way and stepped in. “I tapped. Three times.”

  “I was not looking at the road. Why should I look at the road? I was cogitating—and enjoying the sunshine.”

  “Won’t last.” Oria joined me at the window. “A whole week of mild weather? That usually means three weeks of blizzard on the way.”

  “Let it come,” I said, waving a hand. I was as glad to get off the subject of roads as I was to talk about all the new comforts the castle afforded. “We have windows, and heat vents, and cushions. We could last out a year of blizzards.”

  Oria nodded, but—typically—reverted right to her subject. “If you weren’t looking down the road, then it’s the first time in weeks.”

  “Weeks? Huh!” I scoffed.

  She shrugged a little. “Missing your brother?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I’ll be glad when the roads clear—Branaric did promise to come home.” Then I considered her. “Do you miss him?”

  Oria laughed, tossing her curly black hair over her shoulder. “I know I risk sounding like an old woman rather than someone who is one year past her Flower Day, but my fancy for him was nothing more than a girl’s dream. I much prefer my own flirts now.” She pointed at me. “That’s what you need, Mel, some flirts.”

  I, too, had passed my Flower Day, which meant I was of marriageable age, but I felt sometimes as if I were ten years younger than Oria. She had lots of flirts and seemed to enjoy them all. I’d never had one—and I didn’t want one. “Who has the time? I’m much too busy with Tlanth. Speaking of busy, what make you of this?” I held out the letter.

  Oria took it and frowned slightly as she read. When she reached the end, she said, “It seems straightforward enough, except…Merindar. Isn’t she some relation to the old king?”

  “Sister,” I said. “The Marquise of Merindar.”

  “Isn’t she a princess?”

  “While they ruled, the Merindars only gave the title ‘prince’ or ‘princess’ to their chosen heir. She carries the family title, which predates their years on the throne.”

  Oria pursed her lips. “So what does this mean?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I did help bring about the downfall of her brother. I think a nasty letter threatening vengeance, awful as it would be to get, would be more understandable than this letter.”

  Oria smiled. “Seems honest enough. She wants to meet you.”

  “But why? And why now? And what’s this about ‘guidance’?”

  Oria glanced at the letter, her dark brows slightly furrowed, then whistled softly. “I missed that, first time through. What do you think she’s hinting at, that she thinks the new king ought not to be king?”

  “That is the second thing I’ve been wondering about,” I said. “If she’d make a good ruler, then she ought to be supported…”

  “Well, would she?”

  “I don’t know anything about her.”

  Oria handed the letter to me, and gave me a crooked grin. “Do you want to support her bid for the crown, or do you just want to see the Marquis of Shevraeth defeated?”

  “That’s the third thing on my mind,” I said. “I have to admit that part of me—the part that still rankles at my defeat last year—wants him to be a bad king. But that’s not being fair to the country. If he’s good, then he should be king. This concerns all the people of Remalna, their safety and well-being, and not the feelings of one sour countess.”

  “Whom can you ask, then?”

  “I don’t know. The people who would know her best are all at Court, and I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I could throw this castle.”

  Oria grinned out the window at the sunlit snowy expanse.

  Materially, our lives had changed drastically since the desperate days of our revolt against Galdran Merindar. We were wealthy now, and my brother seemed to have been adopted by the very courtiers whom we had grown up regarding
as our enemies. While he lingered in the capital for half a year, I divided my time between initiating vast repairs to Tlanth, and banishing the ignorance I had grown up with.

  “How about writing to your brother?” Oria asked at last.

  “Bran is good, and kind, and as honest as the stars are old,” I said, “but the more I read, the more I realize that he has no political sense at all. He takes people as he finds them. I don’t think he’d have the first notion about what makes a good or bad ruler.”

  Oria nodded slowly. “In fact, I suspect he would not even like being asked.” She gave me a straight look. “There is one person you could ask, and that is the Marquis of Shevraeth.”

  “Ask the putative next king to evaluate his rival? Not even I would do that,” I said with a grimace. “No.”

  “Then you could go to Court and evaluate them yourself,” she stated. “Why not? Everything is finished here, or nearly. We have peace in the county, and as for the house, you made me steward. Will you trust me to carry your plans forward?”

  “Of course I will,” I said impatiently. “But that’s not the issue. I won’t go to Court. I don’t want to…”

  “Don’t want to what?” Oria persisted.

  I sighed. “Don’t want to relive the old humiliations.”

  “What humiliations?” she asked, her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “Mel, the whole country thinks you a heroine for facing down Galdran.”

  “Not everyone,” I muttered.

  Oria crossed her arms. “Which brings us right back,” she said, “to that marquis.”

  I sighed again. “If I never see him again, I will be content—”

  “You’ll not,” Oria said firmly.

  I shook my head and gazed sightlessly at the snow, reliving memories of the year before. I could picture how he must have described our encounters—always in that drawling voice, with his courtier’s wit—for the edification of the sophisticates at Court. How much laughter had every noble in the kingdom enjoyed at the expense of the barefoot, ignorant Countess Meliara Astiar of Tlanth?

  “Lady Meliara?” There was a tap outside the door, and Julen lifted the tapestry. Oria and I stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully.

  “More Fire Sticks?” I asked. “In midwinter?”

  “Just found them outside the gate.” Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went out.

  Oria grinned at me. “Maybe they’re a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it.”

  “I didn’t do it,” I muttered. “All I did was make mistakes.”

  Oria crossed her arms. “Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. All the more reason to go to Court—”

  “And what?” I asked sharply. “Get myself into trouble again?”

  Oria stood silently. I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like that sometimes. We’d be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit.

  “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, stuffing the marquise’s letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. “You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind.”

  “I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace,” Oria said quietly. “You left your brother and the Marquis of Shevraeth without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it’s gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road.”

  I felt my temper flare, but I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn’t angry with her.

  I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. “Perhaps you may be right, and I’ll write to Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!” And I picked up the book I’d been reading before the letter came. “This is one I got before the snows closed the roads: ‘And in several places throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and Morvende glyphs.’” I looked up from the book. “Doesn’t that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you find these places?”

  Oria shuddered. “Not me. I like it fine right here at home.”

  “Use your imagination!” I read on. “‘Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies—’” I stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at the guardhouse down the road.

  “Someone’s coming!” I exclaimed.

  Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. “And the Hill Folk saw them.” She pointed at the Fire Sticks.

  “‘Them?’” I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. “Means a crowd, true enough.”

  Julen reappeared and tapped at the door. “Countess, I believe we have company on the road.”

  She cocked a questioning brow and I said, “I didn’t expect anyone.” Then my heart thumped, and I added, “It could be the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain—d’you think it might be Branaric at last? I don’t see how it could be anyone else!”

  “Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?” Oria asked.

  “Maybe he’s brought lots of servants?” I suggested doubtfully. “Perhaps his half year at Court has given him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he’s hired artisans from the capital to help forward our work on the castle. I hope it’s artisans,” I added.

  “Either way, we’ll be wanted to find space for these newcomers,” Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. “You ought to put on one of those gowns of your mother’s that we remade, my lady.”

  “For my brother?” I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. “I don’t need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!”

  Julen whisked herself out.

  Oria paused in the doorway. “What about your letter?”

  “I guess I will have to ask Bran,” I said, feeling that neck-tightening sense of foreboding again. “But later. When I find the right time.”

  She ducked her head in a nod, then disappeared.

  I pulled the letter from my pocket, crammed it into a carved box near my bed, and ran out of the room.

  The flags were chilly on my feet, but I decided against going back in for shoes. If it really was Bran, I wanted to be in the courtyard to see his face when he discovered the improvements to the castle.

  The prospect of Bran’s arrival, which we had anticipated so long, made me slow my steps to look at the familiar work as if it were new: windows, modernized fireplaces, and best of all, the furnishings. My prizes were the antique plainwood tables from overseas, some with inlaid patterns, some with scrollwork and thin lines of gilding, all of it—to my eyes, anyway—beautiful. Half the rooms had new rugs from faraway Colend, where the weavers know how to fashion with clear colors the shapes of birds and flowers, and to make the rugs marvelously soft to the feet.

  As I trod down the main stairway, I surveyed with pleasure the smooth tiles that had replaced the worn, uneven stones. They made the area look lighter and larger, though I hadn’t changed anything in the walls. The round window at the front of the hall had stained glass in it now, a pattern of diamonds that scattered colored light across the big stairway when the sun was right.

  Oria reappeared as I crossed the hall to the front door.

  “I wish the tapestries were done,” I said, giving one last glance around. “Those bare walls.”

  “True, but who will notice, with the new tiles, and these pretty trees?”

  I thanked Oria, feeling a little guilty. I had stolen the idea of the potted trees from the Renselaeus palace—where I had been taken briefly during the latter part of the war—but how would they ever know? I com
forted myself with this thought and turned my attention to the others, who were all gathering to welcome Bran.

  Oria, Julen, and I had designed a handsome new livery, and both women wore their new fine linen gowns trimmed at neck and sleeves with green. Little Calaub was proud of his new-sewn stablehand livery, which marked him out to his friends in the village for his exalted future as the Astiar Master of Horse. Village? Town, I thought, distracted, as the sound of pounding horse hooves preceded Bran’s arrival. Many of the artisans I’d hired had elected to remain, for everyone in the village had decided to improve their homes. We had lots of business for any who wanted it, and money—at last—to pay for it all.

  The rattle up the new-paved road—our first project during summer—grew louder, and to our surprise, not one but four coaches arrived, the first one a grand affair with our device boldly painted on its side. Outriders clattered in, their magnificent horses kicking up the powdery snow, and for a time all was chaos as the stablehands ran to see to the animals and lead them to our new barn.

  “Four coaches?” Julen said to me, frowning. “We’ve room for the one. Two, if they shift things around and squeeze up tightly.”

  “The last two will have to go to the old garrison barn,” I said. “Leastwise it has a new roof.”

  Out of the first carriage stepped Bran, his hair loose and shining under a rakish plumed hat. He was dressed in a magnificent tunic and glossy high blackweave riding boots, with a lined cloak slung over one shoulder. He grinned at me—then he turned and, with a gesture of practiced grace that made me blink, handed out a lady.

  A lady? I gawked in dismay at the impressive hat and muffling cloak that spanned a broad skirt, and looked down at myself, in an old skirt Oria had discarded, a worn tunic that I hadn’t bothered to change after my sword lesson that morning, and my bare feet. Then I noticed that Julen and Oria had vanished. I stood there all alone.