CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“What?” I yelled. And I opened my mouth to complain Nobody told me anything, but I recalled a certain interview, not long ago, that ended rather abruptly when a candleholder—ah—changed hands. Grimacing, I said in a more normal voice, “When did this happen?”
“That’s the joke on us.” Bran laughed. “They’ve been at it as long as we have. Longer, even.”
I looked from father to son and read nothing in those bland, polite faces. “Then…why…didn’t you respond to our letter?”
As I spoke the words, a lot of things started making sense.
I thought back to what Ara’s father had said, and then I remembered Shevraeth’s words about the purpose of a court. Prince Alaerec saluted me with his wineglass; a little gesture, but I read in it that he had comprehended a good deal of my thoughts.
Which meant that my face, as usual, gave me away—and I flushed painfully.
He said, “We admire—tremendously—your courageous efforts to right the egregious wrongs obtaining in Remalna.”
Thinking again of Ara’s father and Master Kepruid the innkeeper, I said, “But the people don’t welcome armies trampling through their houses and land, even armies on their side. I take it you’ve figured out some miraculous way around this?”
Bran slapped his palm down on the table. “That’s it, Mel—where we’ve been blind. We were trying to push our way in from without, but Shevraeth, here, has been working from within.” He nodded in the prince’s direction. “Both—all three of ‘em, in fact.”
I blinked, trying to equate with a deadly plot an old, imperious voice whose single purpose seemed to be the safety of her clothing. “The princess is part of this, too?”
“She is the one who arranged your escape from Athanarel,” Shevraeth said to me. “The hardest part was finding your spy.”
“You knew about Azmus?”
“I knew you had to have had some kind of contact in Remalna-city, from some of the things you said during our earlier journey. We had no idea who, or what, but we assumed that this person would display the same level of loyalty your compatriots had when you first fell into our hands, and I had people wait to see who might be lurking around the palace, watching.”
Questions crowded my thoughts. But I pushed them all aside, focusing on the main one. “If you’re rebelling, then you must have someone in mind for the throne. Who?”
Bran pointed across the table at Shevraeth. “He seems to want to do it, and I have to say, he’d be better at it than I.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” I said without thinking.
Bran winced and rubbed his chin. “Mel…”
“Please, my dear Lord Branaric,” the prince murmured. “Permit the lady to speak. I am interested to hear her thoughts on the matter.”
Rude as I’d been before, my response had shocked even me, and I hadn’t intended to say anything more. I sneaked a peek at the marquis, who sat with his goblet in his fingers, his expression one of mild questioning.
I sighed, short and sharp. “You’d be the best because you aren’t court trained,” I said to Bran. It was easier than facing those other two. “Court ruined, I’d say. You don’t lie—you don’t even know how to lie in social situations like this. I think it’s time the kingdom’s leader is known for honesty and integrity, not for how well he gambles or how many new fashions he’s started. Otherwise we’ll be swapping one type of bad king for another.”
Bran drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. “But I don’t want to do it. Not alone, anyway. If you are with me—”
“I’m not going to Remalna-city,” I said quickly.
All three looked at me—I could feel it, though I kept my own gaze on my brother’s face. His eyes widened. I said, “You’re the one who always wanted to go there. I’ve been. Once. It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat. You’d be fine on your own,” I finished weakly, knowing that he wouldn’t—that I’d just managed, through my own anger, to ruin his chances.
“Mel, I don’t know what to say. “Where t’start, burn it!” Bran ran his fingers through his hair, snarling it up—a sure sign he was upset. “Usually it’s you with the quick mind, but this time I think you’re dead wrong.”
“On the contrary,” the prince said, with a glance at his son. “She makes cogent points. And there will be others aside from the loyalists in Tlanth who will, no doubt, share a similar lack of partisanship.”
“Your point is taken, Father,” Shevraeth said. “It is an issue that I will have to address.”
Sensing that there was more meaning to their words than was immediately obvious, I looked from one to the other for clues, but of course there were none that I could descry.
Branaric filled his glass again. “So, what exactly is it you want from us?”
“Alliance,” Shevraeth said. “How that will translate into practical terms is this: You withdraw to your home, to all appearances willing to negotiate a truce. I shall do my best to prevail upon Galdran to accept this truce, and we can protract it on technicalities for as long as may be, which serves a double purpose.”
“End the fighting, but honorably,” Bran said, nodding. “I understand you so far. What if Debegri comes after us anyway?”
“In apprehension of that, my people are taking and holding the Vesingrui fortress on your border. For now they are wearing the green uniform, as servants of the Crown. If Debegri goes on the attack, I will send this force against him. If not—”
“They’ll leave us be?”
“Yes.”
“And if Debegri doesn’t come?”
“You wait. I hope to achieve the objective peacefully, or with as little unpleasantness as possible. If it transpires that I do require aid in the southeast, I would like to be able to rely on you and your people as a resource.”
“And after?”
“As we discussed. Honor the Covenant. No more forced levies; tax reform; trade reestablished with the outside, minus the tariffs that went into the Merindar personal fortune. That’s to start.”
Bran shrugged, rubbed his hands from his jaw to through his hair, then he turned to me. “Mel?”
“I would prefer to discuss it later,” I said.
“What’s to discuss?” Bran said, spreading his hands.
“The little matter of the crown,” Shevraeth said dryly. “If we are finished, I propose we withdraw for the evening. We are all tired and would do the better for a night’s sleep.”
I turned to him. “You said to Bran we can leave, whatever we decide.”
He bowed.
“Good. We’ll leave in the morning. First light.”
Bran’s jaw dropped.
“I want to go home,” I said fiercely.
The prince must have given some signal indiscernible to me, for suddenly a servant stood behind my chair, to whom Prince Alaerec said, “Please conduct the countess to the chamber prepared for her.”
I got up as I said to Bran, “I’ll need something to wear on the ride home.”
He slewed around in his chair. “But—”
I said even more fiercely than before, “Do you really think I ought to wear this home—even if it were mine, which it isn’t?”
“All right.” Branaric rubbed his eyes. “Curse it, I can’t think for this headache on me. Maybe I’d better turn in myself.”
He fell in step beside me and we were led out. I walked with as much dignity as I could muster, holding that dratted skirt out away from my feet. My shoulder blades itched; I imagined the two Renselaeuses staring, and I listened for the sound of their laughter long after we’d traversed the hall and gone up a flight of stairs.
oOo
I slept badly.
It wasn’t the fault of the room, which was charmingly furnished, or the bed, which was softer than anything I’d ever slept on. And it wasn’t as if I weren’t tired, for I was. After restless tossing half the night, I decided I needed—desperately—to be home, and I rose and sat in the window
seat to look up at the stars.
I fell asleep there at last, and didn’t waken until a maid came in. She seemed surprised at finding me sitting in the window in my borrowed nightgown, my head on my knees, but said nothing beyond, “Good morning, my lady.” Then she bowed and laid a bundle on the bed. “His Highness requests the honor of your company at breakfast, whenever you are ready. Do you need anything?”
“No. Thanks.”
She bowed again and withdrew.
After another bath in that wondrous room I put on the clothes the maid had brought, which turned out to be an old shirt, that green tunic Hrani had remade for Branaric, now considerably the worse for a winter’s wear, and some trousers. I had to use the laces from the shirt to belt up the trousers, and the sleeves were much too long, making awkward rolls at my wrists, but the outsized tunic covered it all.
I was brushing my hair out when there was a quick knock at the door. Branaric came in. “Ready?”
“Nearly,” I said, my fingers quickly starting the braid. “I suppose you don’t have extra gloves, or another hat?” I eyed the battered object he held in his hand. “No, obviously not. Well, I can ride bareheaded. Who’s to see me that I care about?”
He smiled briefly, then gave me a serious look. “Are you certain you don’t want to join the alliance?”
“Yes.”
He sank down heavily onto the bed and pulled from his tunic a flat-woven wallet. “I don’t know, Mel. What’s toward? You wouldn’t even listen yesterday, or hardly. Isn’t like you, burn it!”
“I don’t trust these cream-voiced courtiers as far as I can spit into a wind,” I said as I watched him pull from the wallet a folded paper. “And I don’t see why we should risk any of our people, or our scarce supplies, to put one of them on the throne. If he wants to be king, let him get it on his own.”
Bran sighed, his fingers working at the shapeless brim of his hat. “I think you’re wrong.”
“You’re the one who was willed the title,” I reminded him. “I’m not legally a countess—I haven’t sworn anything at Court. Which means it’s only a courtesy title until you marry. You can do whatever you want, and you have a legal right to it.”
“I know all that. Why are you telling me again? I remember we both promised when Papa died that we’d be equals in war and in peace. You think I’ll renege because we disagree for the first time? If so, you must think me as dishonest as you paint them.” He jerked his thumb at the rest of the Renselaeus palace. I could see that he was upset.
“I don’t question you, Bran. Not at all. What’s that paper?”
Instead of answering, he tossed it to me. I unfolded it carefully, for it was so creased and battered it was obvious it had seen a great deal of travel. Slowly and painstakingly I puzzled out the words—then looked up in surprise. “This is Debegri’s letter about the colorwoods!”
“Shevraeth asked about proof that the Merindars were going to break the Covenant. I brought this along, thinking that—if we were to join them—they could use it to convince the rest of Court of Galdran’s treachery.”
“You’d give it to them?” I demanded.
Bran sighed. “I thought it a good notion, but obviously you don’t. Here. You do whatever you think best. I’ll bide by it.” He dropped the wallet onto my lap. “But I wish you’d give them a fair listen.”
I folded the letter up, slid it inside the waterproof wallet, and then put it inside my tunic. “I guess I’ll have to listen to the father, at any rate, over breakfast.” As I wrapped my braid around my head and tucked the end under, I added, “Which we’d better get to as soon as possible, so we have a full day of light on the road.”
“You go ahead—it was you the prince invited. I’ll chow with Shevraeth. And be ready whenever you are.”
It was with a great sense of relief that I went to the meal, knowing that I’d only have to face one of them. And for the last time ever, I vowed as the ubiquitous servants bowed me into a small dining room.
The prince was already seated in a great chair. With a graceful gesture he indicated the place opposite him, and when I was seated, he said, “My wife will regret not having had a chance to meet you, Lady Meliara.”
Wondering what this was supposed to mean, I opened my hands. I hoped it seemed polite—I was not going to lie and say I wished I might have met her, for I didn’t, even if it was true that she had aided my palace escape.
The door opened, and food was brought in and set before us. The last thing the server did was to pour a light brown liquid into a porcelain cup. The smell was interesting, though I didn’t recognize it.
“What is this?” I asked.
The servant had withdrawn. “Chocolate,” said Prince Alaerec. “From the islands. I thought you might enjoy it.”
I took a cautious taste, then a more enthusiastic one. “It’s good!”
He smiled and indicated I was to help myself from the various chafing dishes set before us. Which I did, with a very liberal hand, for I didn’t know when or where Bran and I would eat next.
When we were finished, the prince said, “Have you any further questions concerning the matter we discussed last night?”
“One.” While I felt no qualms about being rude to his son, I was reluctant to treat the elderly man the same. “You really have been planning this for a long time?”
“For most of my life.”
“Then why didn’t you respond? Offer to help us—at least offer a place in your alliance—when Bran and I sent our letter to the king at the start of winter?”
The prince paused to take a sip of his coffee. I noted idly that he had long, slim hands like his son’s. Had the prince ever wielded a sword? Oh yes—wasn’t he wounded in the Pirate Wars?
“There was much to admire in your letter,” he said with a faint smile. “Your forthright attitude, the scrupulous care with which you documented each grievance, all bespoke an earnestness, shall we say, of intent. What your letter lacked, however, was an equally lucid plan for what to do after Galdran’s government was torn down.”
“But we did include one,” I protested.
He inclined his head. “In a sense. Your description of what the government ought to be was truly enlightened. Yet…as the military would say, you set out a fine strategy, but failed to supplement it with any kind of tactical carry-through.” His eyes narrowed slightly, and he added, “It is always easiest to judge where one is ignorant—a mistake we made about you, and that we have striven to correct—but it seemed that you and your adherents were idealistic and courageous, yet essentially foolhardy, folk. We were very much afraid you would not last long against the sheer weight of Galdran’s army, its poor leadership notwithstanding.”
I thought this over, looking for hidden barbs—and for hidden meanings.
He said, “If you should change your mind, or if you simply need to communicate with us, please be assured you shall be welcome.”
It seemed that, after all, I was about to go free. “I confess I’ll feel a lot more grateful for your kindness after I get home.”
He set his cup down and steepled his fingers. “I understand,” he murmured. “Had I lived through your recent experiences, I expect I might have a similar reaction. Suffice it to say that we wish you well, my child, whatever transpires.”
“Thank you for that,” I said awkwardly, getting to my feet.
He also rose. “I wish you a safe, swift journey.” He bowed over my hand with graceful deliberation.
I left then, but for the first time in days I didn’t feel quite so bad about recent events.
oOo
I found Bran in the courtyard below. Two fresh, mettlesome horses awaited us, and Bran had a bag at his belt. Shevraeth himself was there to bid us farewell—a courtesy I could have done without. Impatient to be gone, I stayed silent as he and my brother exchanged some last words.
Then, at last, Shevraeth stepped away. “Do you remember the route?”
Bran nodded. “Well enough. My t
hanks again.” He gave me a glance, as if waiting for me to add my thanks. But I was not going to thank someone for capturing us. Bran saw this, and sighed. “Another time, I trust.” I realized then that he actually liked the marquis—that in some wise (as much as a Court decoration and an honest man ill trained in the niceties of high society could) they had become friends.
Shevraeth bowed to me. There was no irony visible in face or manner as he wished me a safe journey, but my face still burned as I gritted out a stilted “Thank you.” Then I turned in my saddle and my horse spun about. Branaric was with me in a moment, and side by side we rode out.
And in silence we began our journey. The horses seemed to want speed, which gladdened my heart. I turned my back on the terraced city with its thundering fall; faced north and home.
We stopped at noon to rest the horses, and to eat the packet of food someone had given Bran while I was at breakfast. Sitting under a tree, dabbling my feet in a stream, I felt my restlessness wash away and my spirits soar. Branaric was unusually quiet. His face, customarily so good-humored, was somber.
“Cheer up,” I said. “We’ll soon be home.”
His face sobered as he stilled, his bread half forgotten in his hand. “And forsworn.”
A cold feeling went through me. “No.” I shook my head. “Galdran will fall—if they’re telling the truth—which is what Papa wanted.”
“He wanted us to help, and to lend our strength to rebuilding afterward. Now we’re to sit and watch it all from a distance.” He scowled down at his bread and pitched it across the stream, where a flock of noisy blue-plumaged tzillis squabbled over it. “Why do you persist in thinking they are liars? They haven’t lied to me. What lies did they tell you?”
“Half-truths,” I muttered. “Court-bred…”
“You keep plinking out that same tune, Mel, but the truth is—” He stopped, shook his head.
“Go ahead.” The coldness in my middle turned to a sick feeling. “Get it out.”