Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  In fine style Bran escorted the mysterious lady to the new slate steps leading to the big double doors where I stood, but then he dropped her arm and bounded up, grabbing me in a big hug and swinging me around. “Sister!” He gave me a resounding kiss and set me down. “Place looks wonderful!”

  “You could have let me know you were bringing a guest,” I whispered.

  “And spoil a good surprise?” he asked, indicating the lady, who was still standing on the first step. “We have plenty of room, and as you’d told me in your letter the place isn’t such a rattrap anymore, I thought why not make the trip fun and bring ‘em?”

  “Them?” I repeated faintly, but by then I already had my answer, for the outriders had resolved into a lot of liveried servants who were busy unloading coaches and helping stablehands. Through the midst of them strolled a tall, elegant man in a heel-length black cloak—familiar gray eyes, long yellow hair—the Marquis of Shevraeth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Yes,” Bran said carelessly, indicating his two guests. “Nimiar—and Danric there, whom you already know.” He frowned. “Life, sister, why are there trees in here? Aren’t there enough of ‘em outside?”

  I gritted my teeth on a really nasty retort, my face burning with embarrassment.

  The lady spoke for the first time. “But Branaric, you liked them well enough at my home, and I think it a very pretty fashion indeed.” She turned to me, and I got a swift impression of wide-set brown eyes, a dimpled smile, and a profusion of brown curly hair beneath the elaborate hat. “I am Nimiar Argaliar,” she said, holding out a daintily gloved hand.

  Trying desperately to force my face into a semblance of friendly welcome, I stuck my own hand out, rather stiffly. She grasped it in a warm grip as I said, “Welcome. I hope…you’ll enjoy it here.”

  “Do you have a welcome for me?” Shevraeth said with a faint smile as he came leisurely up the steps and inside.

  “Certainly,” I said in a voice so determinedly polite it sounded false even to my own ears. “Come into the parlor—all of you—and I’ll see to refreshment. It must have been a long trip.”

  “Slow,” Bran said, looking around. “Roads are still bad down-mountain, but not up here anymore. You have been busy, haven’t you, Mel? All I remember in this hallway was mildew and the broken stone floor. And the parlor! What was the cost of this mosaic ceiling? Not that it matters, but it’s as fine as anything in Athanarel.”

  I’d been proud of the parlor, over which I had spent a great deal of time. The ceiling had inlaid tiles in the same summer-sky blue that comprised the main color of the rugs and cushions and the tapestry on the wall opposite the newly glassed windows. Now I sneaked a look at Shevraeth, dreading an expression of amusement or disdain. But his attention seemed to be reserved for the lady as he led her to the scattering of cushions before the fireplace, where she knelt down with a graceful sweeping of her skirts. Bran went over and opened the fire vents.

  “If I’d known of your arrival, it would have been warm in here.”

  Bran shrugged in surprise. “Well, where d’you spend your days? Not still in the kitchens?”

  “In the kitchens and the library and wherever else I’m needed,” I said; and though I tried to sound cheery, it came out sounding resentful. “I’ll be back after I see about food and drink.”

  Feeling very much like I was making a cowardly retreat, I ran down the long halls to the kitchen, cursing Bran’s total disregard as I went. There I found Julen, Oria, the new cook, and his assistant standing in a knot talking at once. As soon as I appeared, the conversation stopped.

  Julen and Oria faced me—Oria on the verge of laughter.

  “The lady can have the new rose room, and the lord the corner suite next to your brother. But they’ve got an army of servants with them, Countess,” Julen said heavily. Whenever she called me Countess, it was a sure sign she was deeply disturbed over something. “Where’ll we house them? There’s no space in our wing, not till we finish the walls.”

  “And who’s to wait on whom?” Oria asked as she carefully brought my mother’s good silver trays out from the wall-shelves behind the new-woven coverings. “Glad we’ve kept these polished,” she added.

  “I’d say find out how many of those fancy palace servants are kitchen trained, and draft ‘em. And then see if some of the people from that new inn will come up, for extra wages. Bran can unpocket the extra pay,” I said darkly, “if he’s going to make a habit of disappearing for half a year and reappearing with armies of retainers. As for housing, well, the garrison does have a new roof, so they can all sleep there. We’ve got those new Fire Sticks to warm ‘em up with.”

  “What about meals for your guests?” Oria said, her eyes wide.

  I’d told Oria last summer that she could become steward of the house. While I’d been ordering books on trade, and world history, and governments, she had been doing research on how the great houses were currently run; and it was she who had hired Demnan, the new cook. We’d eaten well over the winter, thanks to his genius.

  I said to Oria, “This is it. No longer just us, no longer practice, it’s time to dig out all your plans for running a fine house for a noble family. Bran and his two Court guests will need something now after their long journey, and I have no idea what’s proper to offer Court people.”

  “Well, I do.” Oria whirled around, hands on hips, her face flushed with pleasure. “We’ll make you proud, I promise.”

  I sighed. “Then…I guess I’d better go back.”

  As I ran to the parlor, pausing only to ditch my blanket in an empty room, I steeled myself to be polite and pleasant no matter how much my exasperating brother inadvertently provoked me—but when I pushed aside the tapestry at the door, they weren’t there.

  And why should they be? This was Branaric’s home, too.

  A low murmur of voices, and a light, musical, feminine laugh drew me to the library. At least this room is nothing to be ashamed of! I tried to steady my racing heart as I walked in, reassuring myself with the sight of the new furnishings and, on the wall, my framed map of the world, the unknown scribe’s exquisite use of color to represent mountains, plains, forests, lakes, and cities making it a work of art.

  And on the shelves, the beginnings of a library any family might be proud of. Just last winter the room had been bare, the shelves empty. Ten years it had been so, ever since the night my father found out my mother had been killed; in a terrible rage, he’d stalked in and burned every book there, from ancient to new. I now had nearly fifty books, all handsomely bound.

  My head was high as I crossed the room to the groupings of recliner cushions, each with its lamp, that I’d had arranged about the fireplace. Of course this room was warm, for it had a Fire Stick, since I was so often in it.

  Bran and his two guests looked up at my approach. They had somehow gotten rid of their hats, cloaks, and gloves. To one of their servants? I should have seen to it. Then I dismissed the thought. Too late—and it wasn’t as if I’d known they were coming.

  Lady Nimiar smiled, and Bran gave me his reckless grin. “Here y’are at last, Mel,” he said. “We have something warm to drink on the way?”

  “Soon. Also had to arrange housing for all those people you brought.”

  “Some of ‘em are mine. Ours,” he corrected hastily.

  “Good, because we plan to put them all to work. The servants’ wing is all still open to the sky. We’re having it expanded. Had you ever seen the tiny rooms, and half of them with no fire vents? Anyway, the first snows came so early and so fierce we had to abandon the construction.”

  “They can go to the garrison,” Bran said. “We saw it on the way in. Looks nice and snug. Where’d you get all these new books?”

  “Bookseller in the capital. I’m trying to duplicate what Papa destroyed, though nothing will restore the family histories that no one had ever copied.”

  “Most of ‘em were dull as three snoring bears, burn me if they weren’t!” he
said, making a warding motion with one hand.

  I wished I’d had the chance to decide for myself, but there was no purpose in arguing over what couldn’t be fixed, so I shook my head.

  Right then Julen came in, her face solemn and closed as she bore the fine silver tray loaded with spiced hot wine and what I recognized as the apple tart we would have had after dinner, now all cut into dainty pieces and served with dollops of whipped cream on the gold-and-blue-edged porcelain plates that were our last delivery before the roads were closed. She set those down and went out.

  Bran said to me, “We serving ourselves?”

  “Until we get some people from the inn.”

  Bran sighed, getting up. “You were right, Nee. I ought to have written ahead. Thought the surprise would be more fun!” He moved to the table and poured out four glasses of wine.

  Lady Nimiar also rose. She was short—a little taller than I—and had a wonderful figure that was round in all the right places. I tried not to think how I compared, with my skinny frame, and instead looked at her gown, which was a fawn color, over a rich dark brown under-dress. Tiny green leaves had been embroidered along the neck, the laced-up bodice, and the hems of sleeves and skirt. I felt shabbier than ever—and studiously ignored the other guest—as I watched her pick up two wineglasses, turn, and come toward me without her train twisting round her feet or tripping her. She handed one glass to me, and Bran carried one to Shevraeth.

  I tried to think of some sort of politeness to speak out, but then Bran held up his glass and said, “To my sister! Everything you’ve done is better than I thought possible. Though,” he lowered his glass and blinked at me, “why are you dressed like that? The servants look better! Why haven’t you bought new duds?”

  “What’s the use?” I said, my face burning again. “There’s still so much work to be done, and how can I do it in a fancy gown? And who’s to be impressed? The servants?”

  Lady Nimiar raised her glass. “To the end of winter.”

  Everyone drank, and Bran tried again. “To Mel, and what she’s done for my house!”

  “Our house,” I said under my breath.

  “Our house,” he repeated in a sugary tone that I’d never heard before, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were on the lady, who smiled.

  I must have been gaping, because Shevraeth lifted his glass. “My dear Branaric,” he drawled in his most courtly manner, “never tell me you failed to inform your sister of your approaching change in status.”

  Bran’s silly grin altered to the same kind of gape I’d probably been displaying a moment before. “What? Sure I did! Wrote a long letter, all about it—” He smacked his head.

  “A letter that is still sitting on your desk?” Shevraeth murmured.

  “Life! It must be! Curse it, went right out of my head.”

  I said, trying to keep my voice polite, “What is this news?”

  Bran reached to take the lady’s hand—probably for protection, I thought narrowly—as he said, “Nimiar and I are going to be married in midsummer, and she’s adopting into our family. You’ve got to come back to Athanarel to be there, Mel.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” I tried my very hardest to smile at the lady. “Welcome to the family. Such as it is. Lady Nimiar.”

  “Please,” she said, coming forward to take both my hands. “Call me Nee.” Her eyes were merry, and there was no shadow of malice in her smile, but I remembered the horrible laughter that day in Athanarel’s throne room, when I was brought as a prisoner before the terrible King Galdran. And I remembered how unreadable these Court-trained people were supposed to be—expressing only what they chose to—and I looked back at her somewhat helplessly. “We’ll soon enough be sisters, and though some families like to observe the formalities of titles, I never did. Or I wouldn’t have picked someone like Branaric to marry,” she added in a low voice, with a little laugh and a look that invited me to share her humor.

  I tried to get my clumsy tongue to stir and finally managed to say, “Would you like a tour through the house, then?”

  Instantly moving to Lady Nimiar’s side, Bran said, “I can show you, for in truth, I’d like a squint at all the changes myself.”

  She smiled up at him. “Why don’t you gentlemen drink your wine and warm up? I’d rather Meliara show me about.”

  “But I—”

  Shevraeth took Bran’s shoulder and thrust him onto a cushion. “Sit.”

  Bran laughed. “Oh, aye, let the females get to know one another.”

  Nimiar merely smiled.

  So I led her all through the finished parts of the castle, tumbling over my words as I tried to explain what I’d done and why. When I let her get a word in, she made pleasant comments and asked easy questions. By the time we were nearly done, though I didn’t know her any better, I had relaxed a little, for I could see that she was exerting herself to set me at ease. I reflected a little grimly on how maintaining an unexceptionable flow of conversation was an art—one that neither Bran nor I had.

  We ended up downstairs in the summer parlor, whose great glassed doors would in a few months look out on a fine garden but now gave onto a slushy pathway lined by barren trees and rosebushes. Still sitting where it had for nearly three decades was my mother’s harp.

  As soon as Nimiar saw the instrument, she gave a gasp and pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “‘Tis a Mandarel,” she murmured reverently, her face flushed with excitement. “Do you play it?”

  I shook my head. “Was my mother’s. I used to dance to the music she made. Do you play?”

  “Not as well as this instrument deserves. And I haven’t practiced for ages. That’s a drawback of a life at Court. One gets bound up in the endless social rounds and forgets other things. May I try it sometime?”

  “It’s yours,” I said. “This is going to be your home, too, and for my part, I think musical instruments ought to be played and not sit silent.”

  She caught my hand and kissed it, and I flushed with embarrassment.

  The two men came in, wearing their cloaks, and Bran carrying Nimiar’s over his arm. “There you are. Found Mama’s harp?”

  “Yes, and Meliara says I may play it whenever I like.”

  Bran grinned at me. “A good notion, that. Only let’s have it moved upstairs where it’s warm, shall we?”

  Nimiar turned at once to see how I liked this idea, and I spread my hands. “If you wish,” I said.

  Bran nodded. “Now, Mel, go get something warm on. We’ll take a turn in the garden and see what’s toward outside.”

  “You don’t need me for that,” I said. “I think I’ll go make sure things are working smoothly.” And before anyone could say anything, I batted aside the door tapestry and fled.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As soon as I reached my room I took out the Marquise of Merindar’s letter and reread it, even though by then I knew it word for word. It seemed impossible that Branaric’s arrival on the same day—with Shevraeth—was a coincidence.

  I sighed. Now I could not ask my brother outright about this letter. He was as tactless as he was honest. I could easily imagine him blurting it out over dinner. He might find it diverting, though I didn’t think Shevraeth would, for the same reason I couldn’t ask him his opinion of Arthal Merindar: because the last time we had discussed the possible replacement for Galdran Merindar, I had told him flatly I’d rather see my brother crowned than another lying courtier. Implication: like him.

  Remembering that conversation—in Shevraeth’s father’s palace, with his father listening—I winced. It wasn’t only Bran who lacked tact.

  Oria is probably right, I thought glumly, there are too many misunderstandings between the marquis and me. The problem with gathering my courage and broaching the subject was the very fact of the kingship. If I hadn’t been able to resolve those misunderstandings before Galdran’s death, when Shevraeth was just ‘the marquis,’ it seemed impossible to do it now when he was about to take the crown. My motives mig
ht be mistaken and he’d think me one of those fawning courtiers at the royal palace. Ugh!

  So I asked Oria to tell them I was sick. I holed up in my room with a book and did my best to shove them all out of my mind—as well as the mysterious Marquise of Merindar.

  oOo

  At sundown the next day someone coughed outside my room, then the tapestry swung aside as if swatted by an impatient hand, and there was Bran. “Hah!” he exclaimed, fists on his hips. “I knew it! Reading, and not sick at all. Burn it, Mel, they’re our guests.”

  “They are your guests, and you can entertain them,” I retorted.

  “You don’t like Nee?” He looked upset.

  I sighed. “She seems as nice as any Court lady could possibly be, but how can she think I’m anything but a bumpkin? As for that Shevraeth, you brought him. He’s yours to entertain. I don’t need him laughing at me for my old clothes and lack of courtly finesse.”

  “He isn’t going to laugh at you, Mel,” Bran said, running his fingers through his hair. “Life! We didn’t come all the way up here to talk to ourselves. Nee’s going to play the harp before supper. She spent all afternoon retuning the thing. If you don’t come, after all I said about how you like music, she’ll get hurt—think you don’t want her here. As for your clothes, you must have something nice.”

  I remembered my two remade dresses. “All right,” I said grumpily. “I’ll change and be right down.”

  He kissed the top of my head and left.

  I opened my wardrobe, eyeing the two gowns. Most of my mother’s things had been ruined when the weather got into her rooms. But we’d saved these, and Hrani the weaver had reworked them to fit me. One was a plain gown Mama had used for gardening, its fabric sturdy enough to have lasted. The other had taken some patient restitching, but I really loved it. The color was a soft gray blue, with tiny iridescent mois gems sewn over the tight sleeves and edging the square neck. It gathered at a high waist, opening onto a deep-blue skirt with gold birds embroidered on it. I had a vague memory of her having worn it, and I liked the idea of having something of hers for myself.