Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  “Yes. Well done. But not over.” The princess cradled her cup in her fingers and said gently, “A public hunt means a public execution.”

  He let his breath out. His mother had been best friends with the Countess of Tlanth, born a Calahanras. But the princess was not letting her loyalty to her old friend, and sentiment, endanger everyone. He met her gaze, and she lifted her chin: if Galdran used Meliara Astiar as an excuse for executing nobles, then there would be no stopping his power. Ever. Until now he—or Arthal, his sister—had kept their assassinations secret. The necessity for secrecy had exerted a measure of control.

  She said, “The guards?”

  “They are divided more than ever.”

  “Of course. Someone has to be doing Galdran’s, or Arthal’s, dirty work. The rest, as real protectors of the peace, would hate that.”

  “When I discussed the possibility of Plan B, Captain Sholis saw to it that Belcan the Interrogator was on duty outside Meliara’s cell.” Vidanric grimaced. “I bribed Belcan with whiskey when I went in to ask her to give us time. Azmus probably didn’t have to exert himself to take him out.”

  “Leaving the evidence that Belcan was drinking on duty,” the princess commented, and rubbed her hands up her arms. “A disgusting business. But we have to see it through if we are to prevent more deaths. Too many have died while we looked away, trying our hardest to be civilized.”

  She said it to brace him up. He knew it. And he believed it, but his head still ached.

  The princess patted the cushion. “Sit down, dear.”

  “I stink of wine, and I’ve probably ruined this velvet.”

  “A cleaning frame for the outfit and a bath for you will solve the problem. Until then I do not mind the aroma of wine. Tell me again about Meliara. How very like her mother she sounds!”

  “You mean the flagrant insults?” He grinned as he sank down onto the waiting cushion. He discovered he was tired; some of the tension loosened its grip on his neck and shoulders. “A court decoration. How I loved that! Though she said that she got it from her father.”

  “Who no doubt got it from Ranisia. She was always forthright in speech.”

  “Her daughter is definitely forthright.”

  “You took a dislike to her?”

  “Our acquaintance, if you can call it that, was not long enough for me to make such a judgment,” he replied. “And you know that I have a nostalgic value for bluntness.”

  They never actually named that period of his life, lest it be overheard.

  “I can say this. Even though just about every word she spoke to me bristled with hostility, it was honest emotion. Truth is, I kept wanting to laugh. Until I had to bring her here.”

  He smiled ruefully, thinking of scrawny little Meliara hopping on one foot, mud-enslimed from head to toe, wearing clothing that looked like it had been cast off by a scavenger. How gallant she had been, so alone, utterly defenseless yet so resolute, facing the king with the same honest determination she had faced Vidanric across the campfire. But the king had not seen any of her quality, just dismissed her contemptuously. As the guards dragged her away, Vidanric had been glad that the rain had cleared the revealing tear tracks from her face before their arrival.

  Most of the guards had seen that quality, too. He’d seen it in their averted faces, and in their readiness to be bribed to see to her comfort.

  He rubbed tired eyes.

  “There wasn’t any way to avoid bringing her to court, my dear. Please do not distress yourself,” his mother said.

  “No.” He picked up a cup, then put it down. “No, there really wasn’t. Nenthar is still looking for any excuse to break that truce.”

  He didn’t have to say the obvious: by putting Tlanth’s small army to the sword, Debegri would effectively depopulate the place. They were all in on it, Vidanric had seen from the very first—children as scouts, old folks on the supply lines, a mixture of bakers and stonemasons and artisans toting weapons. It had taken every wit in his head not to roll them over in three days—every wit, and his reliance on Nenthar Debegri’s arrogant stupidity. The baron had craved the glory of leading a heavy cavalry lance charge against Tlanth’s hapless band for the final defeat, and kept looking for ground to make that happen, ignoring every other aspect of military practicality. Vidanric had readily helped him along—leading their exasperated force up hill and down valley on unnecessary marches.

  Then they captured a prisoner who turned out to be no less than one of the Astiars.

  The problem was, there’d been no way to save Meliara from the humiliation of facing Galdran at his most vindictive. At least the king hadn’t dared order her execution on the spot. Vidanric had taken as long as he dared crossing country with Meliara, trusting his mother and Russav to begin whispering all over court about a trial, and nobles’ rights, the moment the fast-galloping couriers reported the news that Meliara had been captured.

  The princess said, “I do wish I’d been able to speak to Meliara. But Arthal was watching me far too closely.” She looked down at her hands, sorrow furrowing her brow.

  Vidanric’s heart squeezed. None of them had known that the Merindars had had a spy among the Renselaeus scribes; he knew his mother blamed herself for somehow not finding it out. She was certain that her own strenuous efforts on behalf of Ranisia to gain magic books and permission to use them had prompted the assassination of the former Countess of Tlanth. But they didn’t find out about the spy for several years after Ranisia’s death, when Vidanric and Russav were nearly murdered while traveling—a direct result of an exchange of letters through that scribe.

  Vidanric had exerted himself to see that Meliara got away, but his responsibility was not over. He knew what must come next.

  “I will go to the king tomorrow. If he’s in a rage, Russav and I can make one of our wagers, and I will make certain she does not get killed. I promise, mother. Meliara and Branaric both, I’ll do whatever it takes to preserve their lives. And Tlanth.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Thank you, son.”

  CANDLESTICK

  A messenger brought news to the warm, pleasant reading parlor—its furnishing chosen for comfort and thus a lack of concern for spilled crumbs or drops of drink—where Branaric Astiar, newly arrived the night before, sat on a cushioned bench with warmed cinnamon-milk in his hands.

  “Riding Captain Nessaren has passed the inner watchtower, accompanied by the countess,” the messenger said.

  “Please show her to the best parlor.” Vidanric held out a hand to Branaric in invitation. “Shall we go greet your sister?”

  Bran smiled, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the warm sunshine radiating through the window. “No, no, you go along. I feel like I just got my butt off that curst horse—do you always ride like that? Burn it, my skull is still jolting from that gallop.”

  Vidanric hesitated. He had been trained to be a good host, and a good host does not insist, especially to relatively unknown people whose alliance was so desperately important in a rapidly disintegrating political system.

  Prince Alaerec—seated in his cushioned chair—murmured, ”Would you not like to greet your sister personally?”

  Bran waved an airy hand. “Not if I have to sweat all the way across your castle. Just bring her in here. If she squawks a little at first, hey, don’t mind her temper, it’s just all growl, no bite. And when you tell her about our alliance, why, she’ll fling herself in your arms for joy.” He saluted Vidanric with his cup, and drank.

  Vidanric suppressed an exclamation of severe doubt. He could be wrong. Branaric had grown up with Meliara. Perhaps he knew his sister better than it seemed.

  So Vidanric ran across the conservatory and down the hall to be at the formal parlor first. He didn’t want her to arrive alone and uneasy, he wanted her to be comfortable; their initial meetings had been so disastrous, he wanted to make certain she would not feel slighted, or scorned, but honored with the very best his family had to offer. He had asked Bran on the ride, “Do
es she appreciate fine furnishings? Do you think she would like this? Like that?” to which Bran had always replied carelessly—and truthfully, insofar as he believed—sure, Mel loved pretty things. Sure, she appreciated being made much of. Who wouldn’t? He loved it himself—could get used to it fast!

  Vidanric would not dominate the room like Galdran did, standing in the middle and forcing people to flow around him: he would take a place away from the center.

  Yes, maybe even keep his back turned, to give her a moment to relax, enjoy her surroundings, see that the Renselaeuses were extending every possible courtesy, before he spoke. That’s it. Plan it all out, stay in command of the situation.

  Staying in command will avoid all the disastrous misunderstandings of previous encounters—will amend them.

  Within five heartbeats of her entry, he sustained that inward sickness one gets when one knows, beyond doubt, that everything one has planned so meticulously is completely wrong.

  When he was young he had never shared people’s delight in watching a house fall down. “Ha ha, they were too cheap to pay for their renewal spells—and watch them get what they deserve!” In Renselaeus, the spells were paid for; the guilds had to use part of their tax money to cover the expense of the extra mages. Houses did not fall down because the wood was old and rotten in Renselaeus. But he’d seen it happen a couple times elsewhere in Remalna before he turned fifteen and was sent away. There was first a sense of impending disaster, the slow shifting and creaking and trembling that built into inexorable disintegration. Some liked to gather to watch, and even hope for a fire to finish the show.

  Vidanric, true to his plan, felt her silence after she entered—knew from the lack of footsteps she had not entered the room at all, but stood at the doorway.

  Probably ready to run, he saw too late. She was not honored, she was intimidated.

  All right, take command. Rescue the situation. Pointing to the table of sugar buns and fresh grapes—Branaric had said she loved both—he offered his welcome.

  He might as well have been speaking some language from across the sea. Meliara demanded in a voice that shook with fear, “Why am I here?” and then came the belligerence, because though she was laboring under a total misconception, she was no coward. “Might as well get the threats out at once.”

  Wine. Try wine, he thought desperately. Maybe that would gain him a few moments to think—falling houses, forget that—how cute she looks in that road-worn, overlarge Renselaeus tunic—-stop that! Feeling the entire castle was shifting about him he reached for something—anything—remembered that he had ordered an especially fine Alygran summer wine, and so absorbed he was in pouring some out, trying to get control of his thoughts (which galloped about like lightning-maddened horses) he did not catch her words after threats. How to get the subject to her brother? But out came yet another inanity: “Would you like to sit down?”

  He grimaced—and sure enough, she hunched up even tighter. He didn’t need special powers to see that she thought he was playing around before unloosing some unpleasant surprise, in Galdran’s manner—the words sinister threats caught his attention—then she said, “Bran?”

  Now! “No harm has come to your brother,” he assured her as she gulped the last of her wine—

  And that’s when the house collapsed at last, words crashing about like broken boards, shattered glass, tumbling furnishings. Every attempt he made to catch at the chaos just accelerated it the more until Meliara wailed, “You used me to get my brother?”

  Next thing he knew, one of Aunt Northa’s wedding gifts to his parents came flying toward his head.

  He’d endured long training in dealing with things flying at him—he didn’t even have to think about his arm matching trajectory so he could pluck the heavy silver candlestick out of the air. Catching his attention was the extraordinary series of expressions on Meliara’s face.

  The desperate anger changed immediately to jaw-dropped astonishment, as if she did not believe what she’d done. Then a flicker of—could that possibly be relief when he caught it? But it was too brief to be sure. He did recognize the resultant clap-jawed determination, her short, thin form (lost in the overlarge Rider-blue battle tunic) all braced up for the reaction she probably thought she deserved.

  He mastered himself enough to send someone for Branaric, who (blast his lazy soul) ought to have been there first. Or even alone. Bran arrived at the run (later Vidanric would have to ask the messenger what exactly he said) after which he made certain neither of the Astiars had questions for him. They didn’t, their attention was solely on one another; he was the intruder, in his own home.

  She actually threw a candlestick at my head.

  Vidanric made it outside the door before the laughter took him. A candlestick!

  His emotions swooped and dived like a seabird in high wind: hilarity was foremost probably because it was the most immediate form of release.

  I must be the monster she believes me to be, he thought as the chuckles lapped through him in waves, because here he was, laughing with no control while right behind that door Meliara clung to her brother in a thunderstorm of tears. At least there were laughs between the sobs: those were tears of joy at discovering her brother here, and safe.

  The sound diminished. She was obviously struggling to get past reaction and to her questions. He walked away. He did not want to overhear whatever either of them would say, as he would no doubt be the central subject.

  The last tremor of humor vanished when he re-entered the reading room and met his father’s observant gaze. “Did not go well, I gather,” the prince commented dryly.

  Vidanric said, “It shows? I had better get myself in grip before they return. Father, how can two siblings be so unlike?”

  “So Branaric’s prediction was wrong?”

  “The only way he could have been more wrong would be if she’d taken bow in hands and shot everyone in the castle—beginning with him,” Vidanric retorted. “She thought I’d brought her here to emulate Galdran’s style of diplomacy, and when I assured her Branaric was here, she—” He paused. “Assumed he was a prisoner as well.”

  Vidanric saw in his father’s strictly controlled mouth, the narrowing of his eyes, that he was suppressing a chuckle. ”No doubt Branaric will be able to explain everything to her satisfaction.”

  “Or he’ll make it worse,” Vidanric predicted. “Not meaning to, of course. He’ll explain everything the way he’d want to hear it, not paying any attention to how she would.” He struck the back of one of his father’s imported cabriole-legged chairs and exclaimed, “How can they be so devoted, and yet be so blind to how the other thinks?”

  The prince gestured to the windows. ”From what little I have observed of Branaric, he’s as subtle as the sun, yet as warm, as steady, as predictable. He doesn’t have to think, he just accepts everything on its own terms. Including his sister’s love—and his for her. Just as the sun greets the world each day.”

  “If he’s the sun, what is she? Not the moon,” Vidanric said. “More like the weather.” He did not add that he liked that—when he wasn’t dodging lightning.

  The prince smiled appreciatively, as though he heard it in his son’s tone. He probably did. “She is very like her mother in that way, I’m told.” His brows constricted slightly. “Your mother was even more longsighted than usual in staying away.”

  Vidanric no longer wanted to laugh. His mother had said if she met Ranisia’s daughter she’d want to smother her with attention, and it did not sound like Meliara would welcome such attention.

  He let out his breath. “Not sure what to do now,” he admitted.

  The prince flicked his fingers in the fan-sign of peace. “I’ll send someone up to invite them to dinner right away. I trust that will limit any verbal damage, let us say. If you will permit me to act as host—”

  Vidanric gestured deference in gratitude mode.

  The prince smiled slightly. “—I will contrive to smooth things if I can.” />
  oOo

  Vidanric’s next surprise was Meliara in a gown. She entered the anteroom to the dining chamber at a peculiar gait, her arms held away stiffly from her sides, her white-knuckled fingers death-gripped on the green velvet fabric of the wide skirts. She did indeed have a figure—he looked away, knowing how much she’d hate being stared at—but when she muttered under her breath to Bran (at which he flushed with unconcealed mirth) Vidanric sneaked another peek. And felt like he was sixteen again, when he first noticed girls as . . . girls. Discovering Meliara in a gown—even one years out of fashion, that probably had belonged to his mother—increased the fire of attraction, only what was this wave of something quite different that weakened the backs of his knees at the endearing curve of her neck?

  He managed to perform the introductions without setting off a war, and thankfully followed his father’s lead in easy social chat—weather, horses, Bran’s opinion of the garden and waterfall, his room and its comfort—until dinner was announced.

  Meliara had been gradually relaxing. But in the process of shifting to the dining chamber she made the mistake of heading straight for safety to Bran’s side. Of course Bran being Bran he managed in one mirthful observation to reduce her to knots and angles again. “Stop laughing!” she muttered, and then a hissing admonition that left him snickering and her hunched and glowering as they all settled around the table.

  The prince built, twig by twig, a nest of communal comfort in this uneasily tossing tree—the success measured by Meliara’s incremental relaxing, her responses, even a smile when she complimented the dinner. From then on, as they approached and then presented the plan of alliance, there were fewer sunshafts and more strikes of lightning until at last, at last, the uncomfortable dinner was over. From the pensive tension in the prince’s usually serene brow even he had acknowledged defeat.