Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  “Savona, you think?” A blush burned my face.

  “Could be, except my understanding is, he usually writes love letters to go with gifts.”

  “Love letters,” I said, grimacing. “I don’t want those.”

  Nee and Branaric both grinned.

  “Well, I don’t,” I protested. “Anyway, what ought I to do?”

  Nee’s maid brought coffee, which filled the room with its aromatic promise. When the woman was gone, Nee said, “You can put it away, which of course will end the question. Or you can wear it in public, to signify your approval, and see if anyone claims it, or even looks conscious.”

  That’s what I did. A sudden spring shower prevented our going out immediately, but late in the afternoon the sky cleared and the air was balmy enough for one to carry one’s walking gloves instead of wear them. I chose a dark gown to show off the ring, had my hair brushed out, and walked out with Nee, Branaric having disappeared earlier.

  There were more blooms in the garden than on my previous walk, scarcely two days before. Everyone seemed to be out and about—talking, laughing, watching the fish and ducks and swans. It was while we were walking along the big pool, admiring the swans and their hatchlings, that we found ourselves annexed by two energetic ladies, Lady Trishe and Lady Renna. The latter was tall, thin, and mild in manner, though Nee had told me she was a formidable rider—not surprisingly, as she was heir to the Khialem family, who were known for horse breeding. She had recently married, and her husband, second son to a baron whose family’s lands bordered hers, was another horse-mad type.

  Trishe was the one who caught the eye. Also tall, with bright golden hair now worn in loose curls around her shoulders, she looked like the personification of spring in her light green gown. Nee had said she was a popular hostess.

  They greeted us with expressions of delight, and Trishe said, “Have they finished their ride, then?”

  Nee stiffened ever so slightly beside me. “That I do not know. Branaric went on ahead. It was too wet for my taste.”

  “You also did not want to go with them, Lady Meliara?” Trishe turned to me. “There has been much said in praise of your riding.”

  “About your everything,” a new voice spoke with cool amusement from behind.

  Here came Tamara, leading a small party of ladies and gentlemen. Tamara also wore her hair down, a cascade of glossy curls to her waist, with tiny gems braided into it. “Good day, Countess,” she said, waving her fan slowly. I’d noticed that she always carried a fan, even at informal gatherings when the others didn’t. “Is there any end to your accomplishments, then? Yesterday the air rang with acclaim for your grace on the ballroom floor. Shall you lead the way on horseback as well?” And she curtsied, a formal reverence, coming up with her fan spread half before her face in the mode denoting Modesty Deferring to Brilliance.

  I was being mocked. Nothing in her manner gave it away, yet I knew that that particular fan gesture was not for social occasions but reserved for literary or artistic exchanges.

  I bowed back, exactly the same bow, and because they all seemed to expect me to speak, I said, “I haven’t had a chance to go riding as yet.”

  “I am surprised,” Tamara exclaimed, her smile gentle, her hands making artful swirls with the fan. “But, I confess, not as surprised as I was that you did not join us at Petitioners’ Court today.”

  Nee said quickly, “Court is not obligatory. You know that, Cousin.”

  “Obligatory, no indeed. Cousin.” Now Tamara’s fan gestured gracefully in query mode, but at a plangent angle. I couldn’t get the meaning of it, and the other ladies were silent. “Surely the forming government would benefit from her advice?”

  Was she referring to my having led a revolt, however unsuccessful, or was she digging at me for having lost a crown? I suspected the latter, not from any sign she gave but from the others’ reactions, and I stood in silence, trying to find something to say that wouldn’t start trouble. It was a relief when the sounds of laughter and voices heralded new arrivals.

  My brother sauntered up from the other direction, in company with four other gentlemen. Branaric called jovially, “Found you, Mel, Nee,” as he bowed to the other ladies, who in turn greeted the arrivals: Geral, Savona, Lord Deric of Orbanith, and Shevraeth.

  “What’s toward?” Savona asked.

  Tamara’s gaze was still on me. Her lips parted.

  Before she could say anything that might sting me with embarrassment, I stuck out my hand. “Look at my ring!”

  Surprise, and a few titters of laughter, met my sudden and uncourtier-like gesture.

  Trishe took my hand and turned it over so the ring caught the light. She made admiring noises, then looked up. “Where? Who?”

  “Yesterday.” I glanced at Savona. He was grinning.

  “Which finger?” Tamara asked.

  “The one it fits best,” I said quickly, which raised a laugh. I cast a desperate look at Nee, who was biting her lip. I hadn’t even thought to ask about meaning in ring fingers, though I ought to have, I realized belatedly. Rings would be a symbol like flowers and fan language.

  “I’ve seen it before.” Trishe frowned in perplexity. “I know I have. It’s very old, and they don’t cut stones like this anymore.”

  “Who is it from?” Savona asked me.

  I gazed at him, trying to divine whether secret knowledge lay behind his expression of interest.

  “Of course she cannot tell,” Tamara said, her tone mock chiding—a masterpiece of innuendo. But…perhaps a hint, Countess?”

  “I can’t, because it’s a secret to me, too.” I looked around. Nothing but interest in all the faces, from Savona’s friendly skepticism to Shevraeth’s polite indifference. Shevraeth appeared to be more tired than ever. “The best kind, because I get the ring and don’t have to do anything about it!”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Now that,” Savona said, taking my arm, “is a direct challenge, is it not? Geral? Danric? I take you to witness.” We began strolling along the pathway. “But first, to rid myself of this mysterious rival. Have you kissed anyone since yesterday? Winked? Sent a posy-of-promise?” He went on with so many ridiculous questions I couldn’t stop laughing.

  The others fell in behind. Conversations crossed the group. Before we could break naturally into smaller groups, Tamara brought us all together again, with her as the center of attention as she summoned Savona to her side to admire a new bracelet.

  This was fine with me. I did not like being the center. I felt jangled and uneasy. Had I betrayed myself in any important way? Had I been properly polite to Shevraeth? The few times he spoke I was careful to listen and to smile like the others.

  When I found myself on the edge of the group, I slipped away and hastened to the Residence. In my room, I found Mora sewing. She looked at me in surprise, and got to her feet to curtsey.

  “Never mind that,” I said. “Tell me, who brings letters and things?”

  “The pages, my lady,” she said.

  “Can you find out who sent a page?” When she hesitated, I said, “Look, I want to find out who gave me these gifts. I know under the old king, people could be bribed. Is that true now? Please, speak plain. I won’t tell anyone what you tell me, and I won’t make trouble.”

  Mora pursed her lips. “There are times when the pages can be bribed, my lady,” she said carefully. “But not all of them. Were it to get out, they could lose their position.”

  “So everyone belowstairs doesn’t know everything?”

  “No, my lady. Many people use personal pages to deliver things to the palace pages; and the loyal ones don’t talk.”

  “Ah-hah!” I exclaimed. “Then, tell me this: Can something be returned along the same route, even though I don’t know to whom it’s going?”

  She thought a bit, then nodded. “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Good. Then let me pen a message, and please see that it gets sent right away, to whoever it was who gave me
this ring.” I dived down onto the cushions beside the desk, rummaged about, and came up with pen and writing paper. On the paper I wrote: The gifts are beautiful, and I thank you, but what do they mean?

  I signed my name, sealed the letter, and handed it to Mora.

  She left at once, and I was severely tempted to try to follow her, except I’d promised not to make trouble. I decided to look at this whole matter as a kind of challenge. I’d find some clever way of solving the mystery without involving anyone innocent.

  So I pulled on a cloak and went out to take another walk. The sky was already clouding up again, and a strong, chilly wind kicked up my skirts. The weather reminded me of home, and I found it bracing. I set out in a new direction, away from the aristo gardens and the outlying great houses.

  The buildings were still in the same style, but plainer. Presently I found myself midway between the royal stables and the military compound, and I slowed. I remembered that the prison building was not very far from the stables, and I had no desire to see it again.

  I turned around—and nearly bumped into a small group of warriors in Renselaeus colors. They stopped, bowed silently, and would have stepped out of my way, but I recognized one of them from my ride to Renselaeus right before the end of the war, and I cried, “Captain Nessaren!”

  “My lady.” Nessaren smiled, her flat cheeks tinged slightly with color.

  “Is your riding assigned here now?”

  “As you see, my lady.”

  The others moved on, leaving us alone.

  “Are you not supposed to talk to the civs?” Raindrops stung my face.

  Her eyes crinkled. “They usually don’t talk to us.”

  “Is this a good duty, or is it boring now that nothing is going on?”

  Her eyes flickered to my face then down to the ground, and her lips parted. After a pause she said, “We’re well enough, my lady.”

  Which wasn’t quite what I had asked. Resolving to think that over later, I said, “You know what I miss? The practice sessions we had when we were riding cross-country last year. I did some practice at home…but there doesn’t seem to be opportunity anymore.”

  “We have open practice each day at dawn, in the garrison court when the weather’s fine, the gym when it isn’t. You’re welcome to join us. There’s no hierarchy, except that of expertise, by order of the Marquis of Shevraeth himself.”

  “Shevraeth?” I repeated faintly, realizing how close I’d come to making an even worse fool of myself than my spectacular attempts so far.

  “There every day,” she said. “Others as well—Lady Renna. Duke of Savona there most days, same as Baron Khialem. You wouldn’t be alone.”

  I won’t be there at all. But out loud I thanked her.

  She bowed. Her companions were waiting at a discreet distance, despite the spatter of rain, so I said, “I won’t keep you any longer.”

  As she rejoined her group, I started toward the Residence. The wind had turned chill, and the rain increased, but I scarcely noticed. Was there still some kind of danger? Instinct attributed Nessaren’s deliberate vagueness to a military reason.

  If the threat was from the borders, it seemed unlikely that I’d find Renselaeus warriors roaming around the royal palace Athanarel. So, was there a threat at home?

  Like a rival for the kingship? My thoughts shifted to the Marquise of Merindar—and the conversation with Shevraeth at the inn. Arthal Merindar had made no attempt to communicate with me since my arrival, and I had not even seen her subsequent to that first dinner.

  In fact, since my arrival I’d managed to lose sight of my purpose in coming.

  Bringing me to an even more uncomfortable thought: When I’d surprised Shevraeth in the archive, it had seemed he was actually willing to discuss royal business—at least that portion that pertained to cleaning up after Galdran—for why else would he offer me a look at the old king’s papers? But I’d managed to turn the discussion into a quarrel, and so lost the chance.

  I groaned aloud. What was wrong with me? As I hurried up the steps to our wing, I promised myself that next time Shevraeth tried to talk to me, I’d listen, and even if he insulted me, my family, and my land, I’d keep my tongue between my teeth.

  “My own conscience demands that I make the attempt.” Would there even be another try?

  I sighed as I opened my door, then Nessaren and Shevraeth and the rain went out of my mind when I saw that my letter table was not empty.

  Two items awaited me. The first was a letter—and when I saw the device on the heavy seal, my heart sped: the Marquise of Merindar.

  I ripped it open, to find only an invitation to a gathering three weeks hence. No hint of any personal message.

  Laying it aside, I turned my gaze to the other object.

  Sitting in the middle of the table was a fine little vase cut from luminous starstone, and in it, bordered by the most delicate ferns, was a single rose, barely blooming.

  One white rose. I knew what that meant, thanks to Nee: Purity of Intent.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My glimpses of Shevraeth were rare over the next three weeks, and all of those were either at State events or else at big parties held by mutual Court friends. I did not see the Marquise of Merindar or her two children. Nee said they rarely attended Court functions and entertained only in their family’s house on the outskirts of Athanarel’s garden, though the State rooms in the Residence could be hired by anyone. Arthal Merindar’s invitation sat on my table, looking rather like a royal summons.

  Very different were the invitations that I received from the Court young people, for as Nee had predicted, I had become popular. At least on the surface, everyone was friendly, even Tamara Chamadis, though her tone, and her fan, hinted that she didn’t find me amusing because she thought I was a wit.

  Others were more forthright in offering their friendship. Not only the ladies, either. To my vast surprise, I seemed to have collected several flirts. The Duke of Savona sought me out at every event we both attended, insisting on the first dance at balls—and lots more through the evening. He was an excellent dancer, and I thoroughly enjoyed him as a partner. His outrageous compliments just made me laugh.

  My second most devoted admirer was Lord Deric Toarvendar, Count of Orbanith. He was not content to meet me at balls but showered invitations on me—to picnics, riding parties, and other events that had to do with sport.

  Among intimates, I’d discovered, young courtiers didn’t write invitations, they spoke them, usually at the end of some other affair. Some people were overt—which meant they wanted others to overhear and thus to know they’d been excluded—but most were more subtle about it.

  Not that Deric was particularly subtle. He made it obvious that he thought I was fun and funny, as good a loser as I was a winner. In the weeks after I received that rose, we had competed at all kinds of courtly games, from cards to horse racing. He was entertaining, and—unlike Certain Others—easy to understand, and also easy to resist when his flirting, wine- and moonlight-inspired, intensified to wandering hands and lips.

  The night before the Merindar party, I had made myself easy to understand by planting a hand right in the middle of his chest and pushing him away. “No,” I said.

  He found that funny, too, and promptly offered to drive me to the Merindar party himself.

  I accepted. By then I’d pretty much decided that he was the one who had sent me the ring and the rose, for despite his enthusiastic dedication to sport and his one energetic attempt at stealing a kiss, he was surprisingly shy about discussing anything as intimate as feelings.

  This was fine with me. I felt no desire to tax him about it; if I did and it proved I was right, it might change a relationship I liked where it was.

  oOo

  The night of the Merindar party, the weather was cold and rainy, so Deric drove his handsome pony-trap to the Residence to pick me up. It was not that long a distance to the Merindar house.

  The Family houses were built arou
nd the perimeter of the palace at Athanarel’s extensive gardens, a tiny city within the city of Remalna. None of these were castles, and thus could never have been defended. They were palaces, designed for pleasure and entertaining—and for secret egress.

  The finest two were at opposite ends, the one belonging to the Merindar family, and the other to the enormous, extended Chamadis family.

  The Merindar palace most nearly resembled a fortress, for all its pleasing design; there were few windows on the ground level, and those on the upper levels seemed curiously blind. And all around the house stood guards, ostensibly to protect the Merindar family from grudge-holding citizens. I had discovered that this was in fact not new; Galdran Merindar had kept guards stationed around the house during his reign. As king, he had not had to give a reason.

  “The food will be excellent, the music even better, but watch out for the Flower and the Thorn,” Deric said to me at the end of the journey, right before we disembarked from the pony-trap. “Of the two, the Flower is the more dangerous,” he added.

  “Flower—is that the Merindar son or daughter?”

  “Lord Flauvic,” Deric said with a twist to his lips and an ironic gleam in his black eyes. “You’ll understand the moment you get a squint at him and hear his pretty voice. It was your brother gave him the nickname last year, after Flauvic returned from his sojourn at the king’s court in Sles Adran. He spent almost ten years there as a page.”

  “A page,” I repeated, impressed.

  “Ten successful years,” he added.

  I considered this, making a mental note to stay away from Flauvic—who had also been recently named his mother’s heir, bypassing his older sister, Fialma, the one called the Thorn. I’d learned about noble pages in my reading, for they had not been in use in Remalna for at least a century, and a good thing, too. Unlike our pages, who were from obscure birth and kept—as servants—outside the main rooms until summoned, pages were from good homes and waited on their superiors within the State rooms. That meant that they were privy to everything that went on—a very, very dangerous privilege. According to my reading, pages who made political mistakes were seldom executed. Instead they were sent home before their term of indenture was over, which was a public disgrace and, as such, a lifelong exile from the provinces of power. Those who finished their time successfully tended to return home well trained and formidably adept at political maneuvering. A page trained at the Adrani Court would be formidable indeed.