“Oh!” Relief chased away the intense awareness of his proximity. “I knew you’d think of something! But is there a part for me? I have to be prominent, being hostess.”
“You don’t know your own family’s history?” He raised his brows.
“We barbarians are ignorant, yes,” I retorted, “mostly because my father burned most of our books after my mother died.”
“He did?” Flauvic’s blank gaze seemed curiously intent. “Now, why was that—do you know?”
“I don’t have any idea. Probably will never find out. Anyway, there was no history of any kind for me to read until I began last year by ordering new ones, and very few of those mention the Astiar family.”
He bowed, gesturing apology. “Forgive me,” he said. “I had not known. As for your part, that’s a shade more difficult, for Thirav had no sisters. However, there were two female cousins, either of whom you might assume the guise of. Ardis was the more prominent of the two.”
“Ardis. I suppose there are no portraits—”
“—but you could safely order a gown based on court fashions of the time,” he finished. “The point here is, if people are to get their costumes ordered in time, you must be speedy with your invitations.”
“Costumes are easily ordered,” I said, smiling sourly. “What you mean is, to give everyone time to dive into their family histories if they aren’t as well read as you are.”
“Precisely,” he said with a gentle smile. “It is a shame that so few have the time or inclination for scholarship these days. There is much entertainment to be afforded in perusing the mistakes of our forebears.”
He said it exactly like he said everything else, but once again that sense of warning trickled through me. “For what purposes?” I asked, daring my real subject.
“More curiosity,” he murmured, still smiling. “I never involve myself in political brangles.”
So that was that.
“Thanks for the advice,” I said briskly. “I’d better get to my own studies.”
“You do not wish to stay for some refreshment?” he asked.
I shook my head, pointing at the window. The downpour had slackened as suddenly as it had come, and there was blue through the tumbling clouds. “I think I’d better go now, before it comes back.”
He bowed, silent and gracious, and I was very soon gone.
I decided that that would be my last visit to the heir to the Merindars, at least uninvited and when he was alone. I’d learned something, all right, about the power of attraction, and Nee was right, it was potent.
But I’d also learned that the self might want one thing, but that didn’t mean it was right. Isn’t that why we have minds? I thought as I tramped my fastest away from Merindar House.
One thing I did know: I didn’t want any more lessons.
And there was still his suggestion for my party to be researched.
What time was it? Just then the bells for first-green pealed. Green—time for Petitioners’ Court, Nee had said, so the Renselaeuses ought to be safely ensconced in the throne room.
Despite the fact that I was somewhat damp from the rain that had begun again in earnest before I reached the Residence, I fled down the halls to the State Wing, slowing to a sedate walk before I reached the door servants.
My heart thumped hard, but the big library was empty. Relieved and grateful, I dashed inside and began scouring the shelves. I knew I would not find anything directly relating to the Astiars—they weren’t particularly famous for anything. I’d have to find memoirs or histories that might mention them. The best source for researching the Chamadis family, of course, would be a history of the Battle of the Seven Rivers, or else a history about relations between Remalna and Denlieff or Lamanca. Chamadis lands being on the border, there was sure to be mention of them—and maybe the marriage with the Astiars.
Unfortunately, there was only one book that dealt with that battle, and it was written by the ambassador at the time, who featured himself so prominently that the negotiations for the Treaty were presented only through a long and self-praising catalogue of the entertainments he gave. There was one brief mention of Lady Harantha.
Remembering what the princess had told me about histories, I had to grin as I replaced the dusty book for what would probably be another hundred years. So now where?
Of course I knew where.
I turned toward the corner, staring at the tapestries to the little alcove where the memoirs for the heirs were stored. Bunching my skirts in either hand so they wouldn’t rustle, I moved stealthily to the tapestry and stood listening. No voices, certainly, and no sounds beyond the drumming of the rain against the near window.
So I lifted the tapestry—and looked across the room into a pair of familiar gray eyes. Dressed splendidly in black and gold, as if for Court, Shevraeth knelt at the desk, writing.
For the third time that day, my face went hot. Resolutely reminding myself of my promise not to initiate any quarrels, I said, “Harantha Chamadis. Thirav Astiar. The Treaty of Seven Rivers. Is there a record?”
Shevraeth didn’t say a word. He lifted his pen, pointed at a particular shelf, then bent his head and went right back to his task.
I watched his pen traversing swiftly over the paper in close lines. Then my gaze traveled to the smooth yellow hair, neatly tied back, and from there to the lines of his profile. For the very first time I saw him simply as a person and not as an adversary. The curl of danger, of being caught at my observations and once again humiliated, caused me to drag my gaze away, and I trod to the shelf to which I’d been directed.
A few swift glances through the books, and I found the memoirs of the queen of that time. A quick glance through showed the names I wanted repeated on a number of pages. Gripping the book in one hand and brushing back a strand of my wet hair with the other, I said, “Do you need my reason—”
He cut in, lightly enough, “Just return it when you’re done.”
He kept his gaze on his writing, and his pen scarcely paused. Scrawl, dip, scrawl, dip.
Two or three more words—then the pen stopped, and he glanced up again. “Was there something else?” he asked. Still polite, but very remote.
I’d been staring for a protracted time, my reactions frozen as if behind a layer of ice. I said in a rush, “The party, for Bran and Nee. Do you—should I send you—”
He smiled a little. “It would cause a deal of talk if you were to avoid inviting any of my family.”
“Oh.” I gulped. “Yes. Indeed.”
He dipped his pen, bent his head, and resumed his task.
I slipped out the door and fled.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Flauvic’s remark about scholarship, I decided before the day ended, was a kind of double-edged sword. When I discovered my ancestor Ardis was not so much prominent as notorious, my first reaction was a snort of laughter, followed by interest—and some indignation.
The queen’s memoir, which was replete with gossip, detailed Ardis’s numerous and colorful dalliances. Her ten-year career of flirtation came to a close not long after she became engaged to a Renselaeus prince. This engagement ended after a duel with the third Merindar son—no one knew the real reasons why—and though both men lived through the duel, neither talked of it afterward. Or to her. She wound up marrying into a minor house in the southwest and passed the rest of her days in obscurity.
She was beautiful, wealthy, and popular, yet it appeared, through the pages of this memoir anyway, that the main business of her life had been to issue forth in the newest and most shocking gown in order to shine down the other women of the Court, and to win away lovers from her rivals. There was no hint that she performed any kind of service whatever.
In short, she was a fool.
This made me drop the book and perform a fast and furious review of my conversations with Flauvic. Did he think I was a fool? Did he think that I would find Ardis in the records and admire her?
Or was this some kind of obliqu
e challenge? Was he hinting that I ought to do more than my ancestor—such as get involved in a fight for the crown?
The answer seemed pretty obvious. I decided not to communicate with Flauvic about my foolish ancestor. Instead, I’d use his idea but find my own time period and historical personages. A much more elegant answer.
This time I planned my foray. When I saw Shevraeth dancing at the Khazhred family ball that night, I excused myself after a short time as quietly as I could, retreated to the Residence, changed out of my gown, lit a candle, and sped through the library to the alcove.
It was empty. I knelt at the desk, which was bare except for pen and ink, and leafed through book after book, names and events filling my mind and overlaying the present until I felt as if I existed in two times at once—as in a dream.
If Flauvic had intended some kind of obscure statement through his choice of the time and the ancestors, I could do the same.
The Calahanras rulers had been some of the best kings and queens this kingdom had ever known; it would be a nice gesture to Flauvic, I thought wryly, if I were to assume the guise of one of my Calahanras ancestors. I would select one who was not famous—thus who wouldn’t draw attention to me and away from my brother and his betrothed.
Furthermore, I ought to know something of the ancestors of the other guests, in case there was some ancient scandal or disgrace that I might accidentally dredge up. So I read until my vision flickered with the candle flames. Before I left, I held my candle up, scanning that barren desk. Why would Shevraeth work there when he had what was rumored to be a fabulous suite of rooms in the Royal Wing—including at least one study?
Because he could be alone, of course.
Except for a certain snotty countess bounding in and starting quarrels.
Sighing to myself, I retreated to my rooms to think out my strategy. I didn’t notice the waiting letter until I sank down on my pillows. I grabbed it, saw the familiar handwriting, and tore into the envelope eagerly.
It was a long response to my letter, talking freely about all manner of things. Several times I laughed out loud. Other times I felt the impulse to go hunting books again, for he made easy reference to historical events and people he assumed I was familiar with. It was a relief that, though he knew I was ignorant, he did not think I was stupid. Despite my tiredness, I sat up most of the night happily penning my reply.
oOo
And so passed the next several days.
I prowled around the various Court functions to mark where Shevraeth was, and if I spotted him I’d invariably sneak back to the State Wing and slip into the memoirs room to read some more—when I wasn’t writing letters.
My response to the Unknown had caused a lengthy answer in kind, and for a time we exchanged letters—sometimes thrice a day. It was such a relief to be able to express myself freely and without cost. He seemed to appreciate my jokes, for his style gradually metamorphosed from the carefully neutral mentor to a very witty kind of dialogue that verged from time to time on the acerbic—the kind of humor that appealed most to me. We exchanged views about different aspects of history, and I deeply enjoyed his trenchant observations on the follies of our ancestors.
He never pronounced judgment on current events and people, despite some of my hints; and I forbore asking directly, lest I inadvertently say something about someone in his family—or worse, him. For I still had no clue to his identity. Savona continued to flirt with me at every event we met at. Deric claimed my company for every sporting event. And shy Geral always gravitated to my side at balls; when we talked—which was a lot—it was about music. Though others among the lords were friendly and pleasant, these three were the most attentive.
None of them hinted at letters—nor did I. If in person the Unknown couldn’t bring himself to talk on the important subjects that increasingly took up time and space in his letters, well, I could sympathize. There was a person—soon to be king—whom I couldn’t bring myself to face.
Anyway, the only mention of current events that I made in my letters was about my own experience. Late one night, when I’d drunk a little too much spiced wine, I poured out my pent-up feelings about my ignorant past, and to my intense relief he returned to me neither scorn nor pity. That did not stop me from going around for a day wary of smiles or fans hiding faces, for I’d realized that though the letters could be pleasant and encouraging, I could very well be providing someone with prime material for gossip. Never before had I felt the disadvantage of not knowing who he was, whereas he knew me by name and sight.
But no one treated me any differently than usual; there were no glances of awareness, no bright, superior smiles of those who know a secret. So it appeared he was as benevolent as his letters seemed, yet perfectly content to remain unknown.
And I was content to leave it that way.
oOo
At the end of those three days my life changed again when I received a surprise visitor: Azmus, our former spy.
Bran and Nee had already departed for some early morning event. Unspoken between us was the understanding that they would go off to enjoy purely social affairs for Shevraeth’s personal friends, and I would stay behind. They didn’t mention them ahead of time, they just went.
So I was alone that morning when Mora came in and said, “The vendor you summoned is here to show you some new wares.”
“Vendor?” I asked, surprised.
“I think—you wished to see him,” Mora said quietly, and so I thanked her, my surprise changing to intense curiosity.
A moment later there was Azmus’s round face and snub nose. He was dressed as a goldsmith, and he even carried a bulging satchel.
“Azmus!” I exclaimed in delight. “I didn’t think you’d come—I hope you didn’t think I’d summoned you.” I finished on an apologetic note. “If anyone has earned retirement, it is you.”
Azmus grinned. “Neither Khesot nor I like retirement,” he said, his voice so quiet it was just above a whisper. “Makes us feel too old. I believe Oria informed you that he’s now the head of your border riders—”
“Yes.”
“—and as for me, I was glumly sitting at home planning out a garden when your most welcome letter came.”
“You can speak to be heard,” I said, and grinned. “I think Mora knew who you were—and even if she’s listening, I believe she’s got our interests to heart. As to why I wrote, oh, Azmus, I truly need help. The Marquise of Merindar wrote me last winter, hinting that I ought to join her, and the one time I spoke with her she twitted me for not keeping the vows of our letter last year. But I do want to keep those vows, and those we made to Papa as well! Ought I to help her gain the throne? Would she be better than Shevraeth? Or will he make a good king? I can’t find out on my own—either the courtiers don’t care, or they take sides, and the one person I could ask…” I thought of my unknown admirer, and sighed. “Well, I can’t ask him, either, lest my asking be misconstrued.”
He bowed his head slightly, his brows knit. “May I speak freely, my lady?” he said at last.
“Please,” I said, and hastened to point to the pillows. “Sit down, Azmus. Speak plainly with me. I desperately need that.”
He pursed his lips. “First. Have you gone to Petitioners’ Court, or talked to the Renselaeuses? When his grace the Marquis of Shevraeth was up at Tlanth during winter, he rode around the county with Lord Branaric and answered questions very freely, no matter who asked.”
“No. I…keep running afoul of him.”
“Running afoul on political questions?” he asked.
“It never gets that far.” My body flamed with embarrassment. “Purely personal questions—usually with me misconstruing his motivations. I can’t ask him.”
Once again he pursed his lips, but this time his countenance seemed more serious. “We can begin with your question to me, then. The Princess of Renselaeus did indeed aid us in our escape that day, though it was indirect aid. I retraced the steps not long after, for my own peace of min
d. The Marquise of Merindar had no involvement whatever with the escape. If she spoke to her brother on your behalf, there’s no way of knowing. From what I know of her, I doubt it. But it is entirely possible,” he amended scrupulously.
“Ah-hah,” I said. “So she lied to me. Go on.”
“It wasn’t a lie so much as indirection,” Azmus said. “She did make certain that copies of your letter to Galdran were given into important hands.” He grinned. “Her servant was most discreet, yet most insistent that the copies be distributed through the marquise. I didn’t mind, so long as they got read.”
“Yet from what you hint about her character, there ought to be a reason beyond altruism, am I right?”
“You are.” He jerked his chin down in a decisive nod. “More than one person in Court was overheard surmising that it was her way of undermining her brother’s position even more thoroughly than he was doing on his own.”
“Shev—it’s been hinted that she wants the throne.”
Another nod. “Of course I have never overheard her say anything to prove it, nor have I intercepted any correspondence to prove it. But I can well believe it.”
“She has recently gone home,” I said. “Do you think she gave up?”
He shook his head. “She has never retreated in her life. Every movement was an advance, even when it seemed she retreated. If she went back to her estates, then she has some kind of plan.”
I thought furiously. “Her initial request to go home was denied—this was right before we came. Shevraeth showed me her letter. And the other day, I visited Lord Flauvic, and he said that he’d had some kind of argument with his mother and sister before they left for Merindar.”
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