Crown Duel

  Meliara looked at her brother, the sky, the road, the coach—as if realizing the alternative was trotting along by the side of The Enemy—then said, “Stake?”

  Candlestick, meet heart. “A kiss.”

  Meliara jerked upright, her eyes round, small form rigid with affront. She was so shocked—Vidanric recognized with a deep sense of gratitude—that she didn’t see Nee clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, or Bran’s shoulders shaking as he dove behind a potted plant to hide his mirth from his sister, the coward!

  Then Meliara lifted her head, staring through the window with that expression of wistful confusion that Vidanric had never seen in anyone else’s face, ever. She squared her shoulders as if facing up to a death-threat—and took him totally by surprise. “Done,” she said, and bustled back upstairs, vanishing just before Bran lost control and whooped in helpless hilarity.

  Nee promptly began scolding him, but without any rancor whatsoever as they walked hand in hand to the coach. Vidanric waved to the driver on the box and the coach rolled away.

  While Meliara changed to riding clothes he arranged the hire of the horses, scrupulous in making certain she had the better of the best two he could discover among the loaner stock. They set out at racing pace: he could see that she had no intention of losing. No coy flirt Meliara! He had expected no less, of course; what he did not expect was the pang straight through the heart at the sight of her laughing for joy despite rain and mud and chilly wind, her cheeks glowing, utterly unaware of her sodden clothes and tendrils of hair plastered to skin under her ruined traveling hat that had never been meant to get wet. A joy that doused as definitely as fire under a drenching rain when he met her gaze.

  Should he win? Should he let her win? Yes—no—what would tear their fragile truce the least? For he would win. There was no question of superior worth or talent, it was just that he knew the terrain, and he’d been trained by the best in the world. The only people who could outride him were a few of his own Blues whom he had trained himself.

  But of course there could be no question. Meliara distrusted courtly artifice. With a sense of regret, when they stopped to change horses he took off down a side path that shorted the distance considerably. At least she’d ridden ahead when he was detained by his couriers—did she really stick her tongue out at him?—thus preventing him from having to decide whether to offer her the turnoff or leave her to discover it on her own.

  The ride felt good after the enforced slow trot of the day before. Between bands of rain he read through the dispatches—he’d learned the art of reading on the fly—and when the first drops fell, he tucked the papers away again and mentally sorted those he’d had to address at once, and those that could wait on his arrival at Remalna-city.

  He arrived first, as he expected, and thus had the opportunity to arrange things. What would lessen the awkwardness of a situation he ought to have bit his own tongue rather than set up? Work, of course: the steady neutrality of work, and not the remotest sign of what could possibly resemble an assignation. And so he did not change his clothes, though he would have liked to get rid of the mud-splashed boots, at least. He hung his cloak over an empty sconce, set aside his hat and gloves as he gave his orders to the staff, and soon sat before a writing table, the contents of the dispatch bag spread out, the refreshments to be brought in hot at the arrival of the Countess of Tlanth.

  The flow of work soon absorbed him, but its steadying effect did not, as he’d expected it to, protect him from the sudden and intense flare—no, conflagration—of laughter that shot through him when Meliara stalked in, shivering, her clothing so sodden it squeaked and sloshed at every step, her cold blue lips squinched into a pucker under a pair of glaring eyes.

  He raised the quill as a defensive shield. “As the winner I choose the time and place.” There, he managed that; the rest of the mirth subsided when she relaxed as if granted a last-moment pardon from execution.

  The prospect of a kiss from him was the equivalent of a death-threat. Or was it the kiss? For a year his father’s even voice had knifed him again and again with gentle but inescapable wisdom: “She sees you as Galdran.” After every single unpleasant interaction with Meliara, in retrospect when trying to figure out what he’d done, the moment he’d substituted himself for Galdran, Meliara’s reactions made sense.

  She did see him as another Galdran. Despite the fact that she had acknowledged that her brother would not be a good king. Despite Vidanric exerting himself to do everything possible to prove that he was not Galdran, despite the fact that other people did not regard him in the same way they had Galdran. So why did she?

  All this ran through his mind as they exchanged a few comments—none of them incendiary—and so he gave in to his second impulse, which was to show her Arthal Merindar’s latest effusion.

  It was his worst mistake yet.

  At first it seemed she was going to ignore him as she worked away with obvious determination at the unexceptional conversation. But then she did read it, and hunched up expectant of a Galdran-type threat, just as she had a year ago.

  And he remembered that one of Arthal’s riders had passed them on the road just below the fork up into Tlanth. A series of images from the days just before they left Remalna-city raced through his mind—Branaric laughing out loud at a letter, spinning it toward Vidanric as he said, What’s all this about? Burn it, here we speak the same lingo but I can never make out her meaning—Vidanric seeing at one glance one of the Marquise of Merindar’s charming missives intended to provoke a response, sent in many forms to just about everyone in court—his own answer, She wants to talk to you about your ideas of government, I believe—Bran’s saying cheerfully to Arthal at that night’s party, Yes, I did get your note, but life! I don’t bother my brains about those things. If you want to talk government, write to m’sister. She’ll rattle and yap about taxes and guilds and laws until the stars burn out.

  Vidanric looked up. Meliara’s expression had gone from expectation of threat to accusation. I’m Galdran again. And indeed, it was exactly the sort of cruel trick Galdran had loved to play on people he suspected of conspiracy.

  It was a Merindar trick.

  Vidanric knew Arthal was playing a double game with her letters, not only probing for allies, but testing him to see what he would do, because she certainly had not troubled to hide her actions. The Merindars seemed to be partial to secrecy, spying, conspiracy—if they weren’t causing it, they were looking for signs of it.

  So why did Meliara look so afraid, so guilty? Her words—just spoken—echoed in his mind, and so he answered the real question: “You think, then, that I ought to cede to her the crown?”

  Meliara answered right back, “Will she be a good ruler?” No YES. No denial, either. No courtly evasion. Her question was honest, but immediately afterward there was the old anger and anxiousness, her shoulders tight, her fingers knotted together and he knew he had become Galdran again. She did not want to admit to receiving a letter from the marquise because he would suspect her of conspiracy.

  And he couldn’t tell her that the marquise had sent ‘secret’ letters to everyone because it would sound like he’d been spying. Could he get Bran to—no, blast it, he remembered the first day they arrived in Tlanth he’d asked Bran if he’d kept the marquise’s letter, to which Bran had replied, “What letter?” He’d already forgotten it.

  There was no answer to be made, then: I am not Galdran could be said, it could be repeated, but the truth of it had to be proved. But how?

  As soon as she paused he tried diplomacy. From her silence it was clear that she was as glad as he to end the conversation that had so suddenly become a dispute.

  Would every attempt to speak to her end with dispute? He was beginning to fear it would because he was Galdran—a false-faced, lying courtier, now with the power of life or death at hand. How could he lay all that aside to get her to just see him?

  More to the point, why should he even try?

  H
e had to consider that question, but not while his own emotions were roiling. So he kept his eyes on his stacks of papers and went on sorting as though he were alone in the room, as the quality of the silence altered gradually into quiet.

  He finished writing his responses, and his notes to himself to be discussed later, the straightforward tasks soothing to the spirit, until he was interrupted by the clatter and bustle of arrivals echoing up the courtyard walls outside the window.

  He dropped his pen and rose. Meliara’s stillness was immediately explained: she’d danced half the night away, rising early, and so now was asleep, curled up on a cushion.

  He’d ride the rest of the way to Remalna city, and straight-arm Bran into joining him. No, he wouldn’t have to, he thought wryly. Meliara would straight-arm Nee into sending Bran riding so the two females could stay in the coach, and prevent another painfully awkward situation like this one. Because Meliara didn’t flirt.

  It was then, in the calm light of afternoon, as Mel lay there breathing slowly, her tension for once smoothed away, that he saw what he had so nearly missed.

  Meliara did not flirt. He did not know why—he suspected she did not know why—she had accepted that wager, because she did not flirt. But one thing was absolutely certain, so certain he knew it with bone-deep conviction: she would never have accepted that wager from Galdran.

  RUSSAV AND THE RING

  “You’re smitten.”

  “Russav—”

  “Smitten! Stars! When I remember all that advice you gave me years ago about not getting involved, flirtation with a smile and a light word and both part amicably, ho ho, I could fall down dead with laughter. That girl walks by with her nose in the air like you’re a midden pile waiting for a wand, and you almost walk into a door. Ha ha ha!”

  “Russav—”

  “Vidanric—” Savona mocked Vidanric’s exasperated tone. “Or ought I to withdraw behind my court mask and with a light word, a bow, hold my fan at Parting with Parity, and address you as My Lord Marquis of Shevraeth—”

  “Russav. Shut up.”

  “Or what, smitten-boy? Oh I can’t stand it, I want to dance on tables and howl at the moon. You’re not only smitten, you’re smitten with a scrap of a girl who has the fashion sense of a tree, the social graces of a yearling, and a temper that makes Tamara seem dull and listless by comparison!” He stopped to get in a good long gloat, and gloated even more loudly when he saw the telltale red along Danric’s fine Renselaeus cheekbones. “Smit-ten! And the best of the jest is, she acts like she can’t stand you! Oh, ha ha ha ha!”

  Vidanric looked out the window, his face closed behind what Russav thought of as his anti-Merindar Shield as he ran the feathered edges of his quill through his fingers, over and over.

  Rain drummed suddenly on the roof above the library alcove that Vidanric had chosen as his private study; a gust of wind flung tiny grits of hail to plinkle unmusically against the windows. Vidanric wanted him gone—the subject closed—but Russav did not relent, just chuckled under his breath as he counted to himself.

  He’d reached forty when Vidanric’s head turned sharply. “Acts like?”

  “That.” Russav snickered, like he was twelve again. “Is what makes it so funny—that girl is just as smitten with you, but she doesn’t even know it.”

  Vidanric dropped his pen onto the table with an exasperated sigh. “I was beginning to wonder, but now I see it: you are drunk, and gripped by delirium visions.”

  “Smitten.”

  “No, she is not.”

  “Yes she is.”

  “No she isn’t.”

  “Is. Is, is, is! Oh, ha ha, this is the funniest thing to happen to this sorry, sodden court for years, and it’s even funnier that you can’t see it!”

  “Russav. Go get some coffee. She hates me, she hates what I say, what I think—what she believes I think—what I do, what I wear, she hates the ground where my shadow touches.”

  “No she doesn’t,” Russav retorted, shaking his head. “You’re talking to the expert now, warrior boy. You’ve got the edge on horses and swords, I have the edge on the female mind. That girl is smitten. She’s so smitten she doesn’t even see the rest of the boys, much less your obedient servant—” An exaggerated bow. “When it comes to the delicate art of courtship she’s afraid of her own shadow.”

  “No, I regret—”

  “She just doesn’t know it,” Russav interrupted, picking up Vidanric’s fan from his desk and flicking it across one eye in Willfully Blind mode. “She probably thinks what she feels is a stomach ailment, or a cold coming on—”

  “A stomach ailment? All right, the jest is over.”

  “—though I could understand your giving someone a stomach ailment with that cold manner of yours. . .” Russav glanced up—straight into the Renselaeus dead fish eye. He relented. After all, it wasn’t Danric’s fault he’d had to take on the crown—along with Tamara’s ambitions. And he’d kept the promise he’d made long ago about Tamara, whatever he privately thought of her truly inspired attempts to glamour him. “See here, Danric. You were right about her—there is no hint of guile in Meliara, but she has no shield against guile, either. I don’t mind a whit making her popular. I enjoyed my ball last night. I enjoyed dancing with her. Even when she didn’t hear any of my famous suave remarks because she was too busy sneaking peeks past my elbow in order to see where you were. And who with.”

  Vidanric shook his head. He let out a slow breath, looking tired. “You did not hear the brangle we had right here this morning.” He pointed just beyond where Russav lounged so comfortably just below the windows, now running with rain.

  Russav said wryly, “If it was half as fiery as the brangle Tamara forced on me, it must have been memorable.”

  “Not memorable—we’ve had too many of those. Just about every time we speak, in truth. Disagreeable, yes. I’m sorry about Tamara.”

  “Don’t be. I can’t tell if she despises your little countess because of her haplessness or because I gave her some attention, but after the way she’s been chasing after you, a little of the same sauce will spice her dish quite well. I plan to keep right on flirting with your Meliara—”

  “She isn’t my Meliara.”

  “Well, she isn’t mine, either. I can see her struggling to make what she considers courtly banter, but if she’s ever been kissed before, I’ll eat my hat. I’ll eat your hat, which has more lace on it. I’ll flirt with her until the stars drop down, but I’ll not be her first kiss. She has no interest in me whatsoever, and isn’t even pretending to. Gratitude! I’ve experienced everything else, from wiles to wailing, but a friendly girl who is grateful for my attention is a new one. I’m going to keep that flirtation as decorous as if she were my grandmother. Your grandmother. No.” He grimaced, standing up as a shaft of sunlight bisected the room. “No matter whose grandmother, that sounds wrong. Even I don’t flirt with people’s grandmothers. Anyway, her first kiss will have to be delivered by someone else. Geral would give anything if she’d think of him as something other than an extra brother.”

  Vidanric looked inscrutable—which, Russav knew, meant he hated the conversation.

  Russav thought of the tensions facing Danric from the border, the Merindars, the empty treasury, and said, “Come. The rain’s lifted. Let’s go for a walk. Everyone will be out—it’ll do you good. Hey, didn’t you say you were going to give her something a day or so ago?”

  Half a candle later Russav had to turn his face away to hide his laughter when Meliara stuck out her hand and proclaimed, “Look at my ring!”

  But the urge to laugh left him when Meliara turned an apprehensive glance at Tamara.

  There was the poisonous smile he detested, and had ever since they were squabbling children. He knew she’d learned that poison from her horrible mother (the single murder Galdran had committed that no one had really regretted, including her own family); he had tried for years to sting, tease, and kiss it out of her, with no success. He feared,
sometimes, that she hadn’t just learned it, but had inherited it.

  Meanwhile, everyone else was laughing at the countess’s social blunder, some cruelly, others with enjoyment. Trishe, as always the peacemaker, made admiring noises as if such proclamations were everyday, and said, “Where? Who?”

  “Yesterday,” Meliara replied, her brow faintly puckered as she sent one of her apprehensive glances Russav’s way.

  He smiled at her, trying to reassure her, and Tamara, her blue eyes glaring his way, asked in a goading voice, “Which finger?”

  But as a social arrow Tamara’s shaft flew right past its intended victim.

  There was no mistaking the innocent bewilderment in Meliara’s face. Not even Tamara could think that the Tlanth countess was being crude enough to parade a new lover by exhibiting his gift, and sure enough, Meliara wiggled her fingers and said, “The one it fits best.” Then her lips rounded as she clearly, but too late, thought about possible arcane meanings.

  Trishe bent over Meliara’s hand, frowning in puzzlement. “I’ve seen it before,” she said. “I know I have . . .” She went on about the ring, and Russav, knowing very well whom it had come from—and annoyed with himself for having forgotten that Trishe had studied old gem styles when she was younger—decided to shift attention from the ring to himself.

  “Who is it from?” he asked, trying to sound heartbroken.

  Tamara’s mouth thinned. “Of course she cannot tell,” she stated, outrageously trying to dredge up the mystery lover implication again. “But . . . perhaps a hint, Countess?”

  Trishe and Nee both looked sick, fans slanting at Present only In Person, and Savona, quite annoyed with Tamara—why duel with a beginner, who doesn’t even have a weapon?—tried to find something to say that would shift attention again, but Meliara beat him to it.

  “I can’t, because it’s a secret to me, too,” she said. Then added, “The best kind, because I get the ring and I don’t have to do anything about it!”