Crown Duel

  That raised a laugh from everyone except Tamara. Savona took in that hateful expression narrowing her eyes and thought: Reap what you sow, my darling, (for it didn’t escape him that she was exactly as beautiful as ever even when she was being hateful) as he offered Meliara his arm, and began to pour out a lot of nonsense about flirts and lovers until he felt Meliara’s tension ease.

  His reward came when she laughed, that free and real laugh that had nothing of the well-modulated court titter in it. Like her brother’s. It was that sudden laugh, and the way her expressive face seemed to glow, that probably had first enchanted his sober cousin. Poor Danric, probably thinking about where he was going to find the funds to shift more troops north along the border, from which increasingly disturbing reports had begun to appear . . .

  Later that evening, he found Danric busy at work in the archive alcove.

  “Come on, you’ve missed another meal,” Savona said. “If you don’t drop that pen and come right now, I’ll report you to your mother.”

  Danric’s smile was absent. “Tell me,” he said, tossing over a sheet of paper. “What do you make of that?”

  Savona looked down at the carefully inscribed words: The gifts are beautiful, and I thank you, but what do they mean?

  And below that, plain as day: Meliara Astiar of Tlanth.

  “Tell her,” Savona said, laying the letter back onto the table.

  “I can’t,” Danric replied, sitting back. “It seemed so good an idea at the time to give her that ring.”

  “Why?”

  Vidanric lifted his hands, fingers up as if a fan was held between them in the mode of the neutral observer. “If I’d ordered one, there would have been talk.”

  Russav said, “Danric. I could have gone to my people and ordered one for you. You know how many gems I give out in a year? Geral would have gone for you—Trishe. All keeping lip-laced if you asked them. You wanted her to have something of yours, right?”

  “Probably. Why do you need to know?”

  Russav snickered. ”Because this gesture wasn’t a mere kindness, despite what you told me the other day. I want to hear you—no, I want you to hear yourself being romantic. Meliara is going to be good for you, however it ends. Go on.”

  “Just that I’d forgotten that there were those in court who might recognize that ring from my great-grandmother’s royal portrait.”

  Russav said, “And if they do?”

  Tamara’s name breathed through the room like a distance scent.

  Danric shook his head. “I’m not thinking about any of us.” The slight emphasis on ‘us’ included their old friends—including Tamara—all of them grown up under Galdran’s beribboned stranglehold. “I’m thinking of the Merindars. If they perceive any possible interest from me in her, they’ll gnaw her bones.”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten them.” Russav whistled the trumpet-notes for a military charge, then said, “Food’s getting cold, and your mother will be on the prowl if you don’t eat. I suggest you send Meliara a white rose—for your intentions are entirely honorable—and leave it at that.”

  oOo

  Vidanric looked down again at the letter, though by now he’d read it through so many times he not only knew it by heart, he could describe the swoop and swirl of the letters, where the ink was strongest, where Meliara had paused to dip her nib.

  . . . I’d rather have plain discourse than gifts.

  She had to have written that last bit, put down her pen, and raced straight to the Merindars. To Flauvic Merindar. She’d probably been having her hand kissed before the ink was quite dry on the letter.

  He picked up his pen, then threw it down. There was no use trying to scry some sort of meaning behind those words—

  “There you are.” Russav batted aside the tapestry. He was freshly dressed, his hair still damp from his bath after the sword-practice and ride. Vidanric always hurried through a bath, the press of work never permitting him to linger, but Russav never hurried unless someone like Olervec was around. ”Ordered us a meal, since I figured you forgot.” It wasn’t even a question. He laughed as he cast himself down onto the cushion. “Was that not the funniest sight to happen upon? Meliara—and Flauvic Merindar! D’you think he’s really become a scholar?”

  “If your context is our sword practice, no. You’ve only to look at him to see that someone’s trained him. He might not want us to know. He seems determined to present himself as a recluse busy with his books—he has twice deflected me when I asked what he is studying—but he definitely doesn’t want close contact with any of us.”

  “Except the women,” Russav chortled. “Have you heard the latest?”

  Vidanric made a grimace of distaste, bent and flicked a much-folded note with his fingertips. This note rested on a small pile farthest from his neatly aligned stacks of reports and orders. “I wish—I do wish people did not deem it necessary to report to me the details of others’ private lives.”

  Russav lifted his shoulders. “You saw what we found in Galdran’s papers after his death.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where Galdran’s rooms once were—now turned into formal sitting rooms for visiting ambassadors who had to be housed in the best, and who wouldn’t experience the aura of anger and destruction that loured in the air for those who’d known Galdran. “I can’t believe he was paying Grumareth to spy on others. But he was, and now he and the other moles seem to want you to pay them for the same service.”

  “How else could Grumareth pay his debts?” Vidanric retorted. “But these are not from him. I really don’t care whom Flauvic is dallying with, as long as it’s—” He stopped.

  Russav looked amused. “Go on. Not with Meliara, right? You wouldn’t be jealous, would you, at the prospect?”

  Vidanric looked within himself. He knew what jealousy was—he’d fought spurts of it when young. Caused by Russav, actually, who was always bigger, stronger, faster. Felt just how sharp and deadly it could be, just once, far away—it sometimes seemed another lifetime—when a tall young man looked down from a horse at a young woman who stood before him, arms crossed. Neither aware of anyone else—though usually they were quite observant, but at that moment all the world was comprised of each another. He’d fought that battle, and won.

  “No,” he said finally. “It’s not that. It’s just—Flauvic is a throw-back to the golden-haired Deis, can you see it? I never realized it. Or if the adults said something, before he left, I was too young to catch the meaning. It’s been generations since the Merindars matched with the Deis, and yet there he is.”

  “It used to be said there was one of those golden Deis a century,” Russav said appreciatively. “But the entire world has seen Sartora, so that can’t be true.”

  “They are certainly rare enough. And it’s not the looks that make them so dangerous—if they are a danger—it’s that their wit usually matches their spectacular looks. What does Flauvic, trained at a court almost as subtle as Colend’s and at least as deadly, want with Meliara? It cannot be mere idle curiosity. They might be about the same age, but he’s a predator, a raptor perhaps, riding the currents above a fledgling sparrow.”

  Russav flourished his fingers in Art Appreciated; his manner, the extra flourish, implied Artful.

  “Too much, eh?” Vidanric said, smiling faintly. “Never mind the metaphors. I was wondering if his pose as recluse is to divorce himself from his mother’s plots. Or is that a pose as well, and he’s as deeply involved as the other two?” He flung his hands wide. “I almost hope he is, because it means I can out-think him. Anyway I confess I’d rather not see Meliara tangled with him. It seems to amuse him to toy with his old playmates one by one, and then drop them.”

  Russav had been considering how to shift the subject to what he had come in here to discuss, which was Tamara’s sudden, friendly-seeming invitation. He knew his Tamara: that friendliness toward Meliara, after despising her quite thoroughly, had been a pose. But here was Danric despising gossip, and there was the trying mat
ter of Tamara’s courtship of Danric’s future crown, so he decided to keep it to himself. Danric had plenty to worry about. Time for some reassurance, and then onward. ”Flauvic’s an icicle. As sharp as he is cold. But this is Meliara we’re talking about.”

  “Who could be as attracted as any of our far more sophisticated ladies to Flauvic’s considerable charms. Formidable charms,” Vidanric amended wryly.

  “Listen to uncle. I’m the expert on women and the delicate art of dalliance, remember. Say he does whisper seductive words into her ears. If she even notices she’ll probably think he’s talking about the selling-points of someone’s horse.”

  Vidanric laughed a little as he folded Meliara’s letter. “To return to the question, how much of this missive has Arthal’s ghostly hand behind it?”

  Russav rose, straightening his tunic and then admiring the straight line of the embroidered herons down one sleeve. “You know you’re going to write back and find out.”

  “Yes,” Vidanric said. ”I will.”

  oOo

  And he did, though as soon as he sent it he began to regret the stiff, distant tone he’d taken. What a pompous fool he must seem! Yet Meliara’s answer was waiting on the pile the next evening, when he returned from the protracted meetings after court. The hand was not as careful as the earlier letters, but written at dashing speed, with occasional curlicues, all expressed in that blithe tone he’d sometimes overheard Meliara using to others, the words tumbling over one another, the logic circular in a way that he found inexplicably charming.

  He sat back, glad that he’d been able to use the excuse of his mother—arranged between them months ago—to avoid Tamara’s party. He was also glad that Tamara had accepted his excuse so easily, almost indifferently: maybe that meant her intermittent courtship was ended at last. Now he might have time to give Meliara a far better answer—after, of course, he finished the pile of work that had accrued during the long court session.

  So it was quite late—he didn’t want to look at the white candles to see how little sleep he had left—when Russav showed up again, smelling of citrus punch.

  He was dressed magnificently, his dark eyes wide with fury, lips white.

  Vidanric’s blood turned to snow.

  “Tamara,” Russav said, “got Meliara drunk. And did her best to ruin her.”

  He swung around and struck the wall, making the tapestry tremble.

  “What?” Vidanric got to his feet, then forced himself to sit down again. This was no crown matter; he could do nothing. ”Where is she?”

  “It’s all right,” Russav said, weary now. He grimaced with faint humor as he wrung his hand. ”That was painful. Pain hurts! How did you manage during all those days of fighting practice years ago? Meliara is probably asleep, put to bed by her maid. Game to the last, telling us about Galdran whacking her out of the saddle, though Tamara did her worst trying to get her to brag. ’Duel to the dust,’ she said, and it would have been the perfect exit line. But no, because she didn’t even know she was drunk, she sicked up the worst of Tamara’s lethal potion right there on the five-hundred year old Colendi carpet of a thousand rosebuds. In front of court’s worst gossips.”

  “Oh.” Vidanric winced. ”That’s . . . unfortunate.”

  “I picked her up, limp as an old stocking, and walked out. I don’t know what others will say—none of Meliara’s particular friends were there. No Nee, no Branaric.”

  “If you walked out like that, then it sounds like Tamara’s party was left in a ruin. That doesn’t sound like a social triumph,” Vidanric said slowly.

  “I hope she ruined herself.” Russav’s anger was all the more intense for the regret he felt in saying it. “I hope,” he said again, trying to convince himself.

  Vidanric heard the change in tone; Russav left a little after, just as notes began to arrive, carried by the night runners, who were far more discreet than the day staff. Vidanric read the various missives, every one of which expressed undying partisanship of the wronged countess, and anathema against Tamara Chamadis. He sat in thought, and then, just before dawn, wrote one last letter to Meliara. Then went to bed.

  When he woke, he sorted his mail before doing anything else. There was another Meliara letter midway down the pile of accumulated reports. He opened it first. Once again he experienced, while reading her words, that headlong rush of thoughts, the laughing tone, characteristically wry. So true to the heart.

  People are not diamonds.

  He only understood the real worth of that when he had read the private missives scattered through the political reports and letters. Meliara’s solution to the problem of Tamara was as perfect as it was unexpected. ‘Diamonds.’ And as generous, though it was clear from her letter that she did not see herself as the dispenser of generosity. He rubbed his fingers over the letters she had penned, imagining her small fingers brushing over the paper in the same place. Perhaps here she’d grinned, and there she’d jabbed impatiently at her inkwell: there was a tiny spray of blue ink above the initial letter, like the reverse of the night sky—blue stars against white.

  You will have to find a way for the two of you to get to know one another as individuals, his father had said the year before. Here, it seemed, there was a way. It was not ideal—it would demand so much time away from already impossible tasks, and depend on the written word rather than the signal of eye, and hand, and timbre of voice. But he would find the time, and the words. Meliara did not look at his letters and see the shadow of defeat, or the weight of kingship. She saw only the words of an anonymous friend, to whom she readily extended her friendship.

  He shoved aside his papers, dipped the pen into the ink, and pulled a fresh sheet toward him. A new beginning, an unexpected gift: let the courtship begin.

  THE WAGER IS WON—AND SO IS THE DUEL

  Baroness Orgaliun regarded Vidanric with dislike. She flung back her head, only the ruddy color in her cheeks betraying her extreme chagrin at being caught carving up the kingdom like a Name Day cake.

  “You should have stayed in Colend.” Her tone was venomous.

  “I recommend it,” Vidanric drawled.

  The baroness eyed him in astonishment, then his meaning became clear, and she flushed to her pearl-edged headdress.

  He went on, “Visitors are always welcomed in Alsais. If you wish to reside their permanently, it’s more difficult. Impossible, even, unless you have a . . . let us say, a civilized skill to offer.”

  The baroness’s flush deepened; she was too enraged to speak. Lord Hurnaev, the last creation by Galdran before he died, had no such problem. “You’re exiling us?” His brow crimped in disbelief. “You?”

  “I regret to inform you, Hurnaev, that your recent title requires us to consider you under civilian law. Though I know your background, as it happens.”

  It was Hurnaev’s turn for rage. He spat deliberately on the floor of the tent. “That for your ‘law’—”

  The spittle was a boy’s trick, but the emotion behind it—the first of what would obviously be an increasing number of challenges—caused Vidanric to sigh. “I did hope you would exhibit at least a semblance of civility,” he said. “I see I expected too much.”

  The baron flung himself at Vidanric.

  He’d been disarmed, so Vidanric, who still wore a sword, used his hands.

  Two blunt, fast strikes, a quick evasion of wildly swung fists, a sweep of an elegantly booted foot, and the baron sprawled on the ground, sitting squarely onto his own spit.

  Vidanric ignored the angry man’s stream of vituperation and murmured, “Just so.” The baron had summarily reclaimed his property—and the other two had taken the warning.

  “Here are your choices,” Vidanric said, now that he knew he had the attention of all three. “As you come under civilian law, you may remain and stand trial in Remalna-city, to be judged by your peers. Or you may accept voluntary exile. My lord Hurnaev, I might warn you that all the local governments will be warned of your former, ah, vocation a
s a mercenary. Just as a hint.”

  Hurnaev stomped out of the tent. Vidanric nodded to the guard captain, who gestured a team to surround him. They would see him to the border.

  Chaskar followed silently. Vidanric watched him go with a sense of sudden weariness, even regret. The Chaskar lands had suffered heavily under the Merindars; the former baron had been one of Galdran’s earliest victims, before anyone knew what the king was doing. Under other circumstances, the new baron might have been a man of unexceptional worth, even integrity, but in throwing in with the Merindars—the best way, he thought, to preserve what he had left—he had chosen to leave respect for the law and the truth behind.

  His fall had been aided by Lady Orgaliun, who had always had an eye to the main chance; not surprisingly she marched after him, having tried hard to come up with a satisfactory parting shot. Instead, she turned her back on Vidanric—and Remalna, and the past. Before the two were out of sight, surrounded by their guards, she was whispering to Chaskar as she slid her arm confidingly through his.

  With them and their waiting guards gone, the tent was relatively empty, save gray-haired Rinna Nessaren, the duty commander for this watch, and several equerries, each busy at a task.

  “Is that all of them?” he asked Commander Nessaren.

  “The rest are military,” she responded. “Except for the Merindars. They insist on an audience.”

  “I suppose I had better acquiesce. Though we have nothing whatever to say to one another. Except it worries me, that Little Brother is not with them. Maybe if I let the two of them rail away at me, they might give me an idea where Flauvic is.”

  Commander Nessaren shrugged. After weeks of detailing the palace guard (those she trusted) to watch the Merindar House at Athanarel, she was convinced that the pretty Lord Flauvic was probably wandering around somewhere, reading dusty books or counting birds. All the guards had loathed Flauvic-watching duty; his private name among the guards was Lord Bore of Snore.