Thunderlord

  Perdita came in a few minutes later, sleepy-eyed. “My lady,” she said sympathetically after taking one look at Alayna’s face. “I have been neglecting my duties shockingly.” She fetched combs and brushes, and set to work.

  “I didn’t want to disturb your holiday rest for something so unimportant,” Alayna said, then cried, “Ouch!”

  “You see how unimportant this is?” Perdita teased, but she used the comb more gently. “It will take half the morning to set this to rights.”

  Alayna blinked back tears, hoping that Perdita would assume they were from having her hair yanked. “There is no hurry. The work of cleaning up from last night will still be there. Tell me, was all the fuss worth it? Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “I did indeed, more than I did in years past at court. Here at Scathfell I can dance to my heart’s content and not worry about hateful, small-minded gossip regarding who favored me and who did not.”

  Alayna closed her eyes. Gwynn will be all right. It was a difficult night for him. He would never act on a rash, drunken impulse.

  “Lady Alayna?”

  She came back to herself. Perdita had stopped brushing and was peering into her face. “I’m sorry, I think I drifted off to sleep. Sitting up, no less. Did you ask me something?”

  Perdita smiled in that sweet, gentle way of hers. “Nothing of any significance. Now, will you break your fast?”

  At the thought of food, Alayna’s stomach clenched. “I must have eaten enough last night to last a grown man for a tenday. Just jaco, I think, while it’s still warm.”

  Perdita brought her a mug, sweetened as Alayna preferred. She drank it without really tasting beyond the first few sips. Then they went downstairs together to assess the condition of the Great Hall. Zefano was busily coordinating the clearing away of furniture and the cleaning of floors, and a number of other activities Alayna could not discern in the bustle.

  A man, so rough-faced and burly that surely he must have come up from the village for the event, hefted the boards of a trestle table single-handedly. The ends wavered, swinging perilously close to Perdita’s head. Alayna grabbed her friend and pulled her out of harm’s way. “Watch out—” she cried.

  “Out of the way!” he boomed as he strode away.

  A slender figure, clad in black, placed herself in front of him. “You numbskull!” she cried in a tone that would have pierced stone. “You almost knocked Lady Scathfell’s head off.”

  Dimitra?

  The man let the boards slip from his grasp. They fell with a clatter. Dimitra had already turned away, summoning two other men. “Here, help this blockhead to carry things properly. And you—” with a stern look at the poor man himself, “next time use what passes for your brains instead of just your muscle.”

  Alayna watched as the three men picked up the boards, with one on each end for control, and just as carefully carried them away.

  When Dimitra turned back to Alayna, she was smiling. “My lady, it’s safer for you to not stand in the exact center of the room.”

  Alayna allowed herself to be escorted to a quieter corner, Perdita close behind. Only then did Alayna notice that Dimitra was not using her cane. The older woman still looked fragile, but less pale.

  “What are you doing here?” Alayna asked.

  “This?” Dimitra gestured at the bustle with a trace of her old energy. “This is entertainment. You don’t think I’d pass up a chance to order everyone around? Besides, there’s a way of doing this, and Zefano knows only half of it. Never fear, I’ll stop before I’ve worn myself to a thread. But what brings you down here, vai domna? Is there anything you need?”

  “Only to be of use,” Alayna said, although clearly there was nothing she could do, short of snatching up a washing bucket and brush.

  “It is not customary,” Dimitra said, “at least not here at Scathfell, for the lady of the castle to concern herself with putting things to rights after such a night. ’Twas more than enough that you helped with decorations and special treats.”

  “I want to know everything about running this household,” Alayna said with a lift of her chin.

  “And so you shall, if that is your wish.” Dimitra’s tone softened. “I am not trying to thwart your interest, vai domna. I will explain everything I know, all the procedures that were passed down or put into place during my time here. Next year, we can work together, should Avarra spare me that long.”

  Alayna could see what a difficult time Zefano would have had without Dimitra’s help. “That will do nicely,” she said.

  Dimitra inclined her head in a graceful salute.

  Once Alayna and Perdita returned to her quarters, there seemed to be little else to do except burden the kitchen with a request for more jaco, but Alayna didn’t want more jaco. She wanted what she could not have—for a loving and penitent Gwynn to sweep through the door, beg her pardon for last night’s scene, and cover her with kisses.

  “How shall we amuse ourselves this afternoon?” Perdita asked after they had sat in silence for a time. “Shall I read to you while you sew? Or shall I bring your rryl?”

  Kyria’s harp. Alayna’s heart gave a curious jerk. “I will sit by the fire and rest my eyes, if you will sing to me.”

  Perdita settled Alayna in her favorite chair, feet on a padded stool, lap robe tucked around her knees. Then she began to sing an old lullaby about a woman who loved the sea and the fisherman who loved the woman. Perdita sang it simply, with only a trill here and there to accent the melody’s minor key.

  Tears trickled down Alayna’s cheeks. She became aware that Perdita had stopped singing. After a moment, Perdita said, “Something troubles you.”

  “It’s nothing, really. I’m still wrought up from last night, that’s all.”

  “Something happened, more than the usual holiday ruckus. You may say it is none of my concern, and that is your right. I must respect your privacy, but I am well aware that Lord Scathfell stormed out of the Great Hall and you went after him. Nor were matters perfectly serene between you when you returned.”

  Gwynn must be the one to reveal Kyria’s existence, but Perdita already suspected something was amiss between them, and that much, Alayna felt she could confide. “My husband . . . got very drunk last night.”

  “Midwinter is a time of excess, a night of intoxication and oblivion. How else could we—or our servants—bear the rest of the year if we did not have this one night to forget? Midsummer Festival is even worse, especially when all four moons are in the sky. ’Tis said that nothing said or done then should be remembered. Nevertheless, nine months later, there is a flood of babes, many of whom bear no resemblance to their mothers’ husbands.”

  “We heard stories of such things when I was growing up. By comparison, our family celebrations were restrained.”

  “I told you we Thendara folk are degenerate,” Perdita replied with a dimpled smile. “So, you see, your husband’s indulgence only indicates his attempts to copy our elevated style.”

  “It was his—the way he was when he—he frightened me.”

  “His drunkenness?”

  Alayna nodded. “I suppose you are right, and I really am terribly naïve.”

  “Or fortunate, to have so little experience with the effect wine can exert over a man’s mind, not to mention his morals.” Perdita’s tone gave Alayna the feeling that she spoke from experience. “But men do indulge themselves at holiday time, and what they say and do can be . . . extreme.”

  “Terrifying.”

  “Yes, that. He did not . . . did he strike you?”

  “No.” Alayna was horrified. Why would Perdita think such a thing? Had—oh gods—had it happened to her? “No,” she repeated, more calmly, “he only shouted. And glowered at me. And was stubborn.”

  “Of course he was. That is how men behave when they have consumed more wine than is good for them. But
do not take it to heart. Your husband is no better or worse than any other man. You certainly did nothing to cause his excess.”

  At this, Alayna burst into tears. Perdita, alarmed, would have rushed to her, but Alayna waved her off, stammering in between sobs, “I’m all right—just—let me—”

  The spasm of weeping passed as rapidly as it had come. Alayna accepted the handkerchief Perdita held out to her. “Well, that’s over with,” Alayna said with a sigh. “You must have had lots of experience with this—” With a wave of her hand that could mean anything from Midwinter Festival to drunken husbands to tearful wives.

  “I have had the benefit of the wisdom of those who have gone before me,” Perdita replied, taking back the sodden handkerchief. “Queen Cassandra always says—”

  “Blessed Cassilda. Don’t tell me that King Allart—?” Alayna could not bring herself to imagine that dignified monarch in the same state of inebriation as her husband.

  “Him? Goodness, no! He was once a cristoforo monk, you know.”

  Alayna stared, dumbfounded.

  “Ah, I see you have not heard the tale,” Perdita said. “Here, let me arrange for something to eat, and then I will tell it, at least as much as I know and have leave to say. There are a hundred stories about him in Thendara, you know, more than enough to fill the hours until the drink wears off and Lord Scathfell is himself again.”

  It was as good a way to divert her thoughts as any, Alayna thought, and soon found herself engrossed in the tale.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, Dimitra came in. “Vai domna, the eating and cooking utensils have been cleaned and polished, and await only your counting before being put away.”

  Alayna had never heard of such a thing. Clearly, this was one of the responsibilities of the lady of the castle.

  “Should I change?” she asked, having no idea how formal an occasion this might be. Her old gray outfit, decent but shabby, might be taken as an insult.

  “My lady may of course do as she pleases, but the Counting is a traditional ritual.”

  “Counting?” Alayna asked as Perdita helped her into the russet tunic and underskirt. Dimitra seemed quite content to let Perdita assume the duties of a lady-in-waiting. Sadhi had not yet made an appearance, presumably because she was still at work, cleaning up from last night. “More than just the spoons?”

  “Indeed, yes. The good porcelain, and the serving dishes, and the knives.”

  “Why—?” Alayna answered her own question. Because the entire household, plus Aldones knows how many villagers, were in and out. How easy it would be to tuck a precious metal implement into a tunic or the top of a boot. Loyalty bought only so much honesty, and the villagers and farmers had been bearing the cost of Gwynn’s army for far too long.

  Damn the army. She should have said something before this. There had been enough opportunities. But Gwynn was now so incensed by the news from Aldaran, any mention of the subject, anything that might be interpreted as a criticism, would only provoke him needlessly. I must be patient and hope for a way through this mess.

  Dimitra nodded approval of Alayna’s appearance, including the butterfly clasp from Gwynn that anchored Alayna’s coiled hair at the base of her neck.

  The three women proceeded downstairs, and Alayna laid a hand on Dimitra’s arm as they approached the kitchen. “Tell me what I am to expect.”

  “The dishes, implements, and also a collection of ornaments that are used only for Midwinter will be laid out on tables for your inspection,” Dimitra explained. “As the Great Hall is cleared, all these things are carried into the kitchen, where they are washed and polished, as may be required, and any damaged items set aside. Guards are posted to ensure that nothing leaves until it is counted. Mestre Zefano will meet us there, and he will record your approval and see to it that everything is placed in appropriately safeguarded storage.”

  “Am I required to actually count the forks and knives?”

  “It is customary. And a good practice, I think, not to rely entirely upon servants, however trusted.”

  Alayna inclined her head and led the way to the kitchen.

  The guard outside the door looked as if he’d been on duty since the beginning of Midwinter Eve. Alayna decided against asking him when he’d last had anything to eat. This was his post, an honorable one. She merely nodded to him as she walked past.

  The kitchen had been scrubbed spotless. Tables, perhaps the very trestle boards that had almost given her a whack on the head, had been set up in the middle and covered with snowy cloths. Servants—the cook and kitchen staff, maids like Sadhi, and others Alayna didn’t know—stood around the periphery of the room. Zefano, record book and marking sticks in hand, waited at the head of the longest table. And there they were, row after row of gleaming implements, stacks of plates, and knives of every possible shape and form suitable for cooking. Short ones, pointed ones, forked ones, curved ones, blunt-tipped ones. Alayna suspected that if a fighting knife or two had been added, she wouldn’t recognize it.

  “Vai domna.” With a bow, Zefano indicated where she was to begin.

  The process really wasn’t difficult, she thought as she worked her way down the first row. She wasn’t expected to name anything, just count it. The items had been arranged in order, so that all Zefano had to do was check off the number. The first time she picked up an eating utensil that was utterly baffling, a sort of corkscrew-shaped fork, he smiled and made a mark in his ledger.

  The Counting took well into the evening, and when it was done, Alayna felt as if she knew the front, back, top, and bottom of every plate, eating implement, and cooking utensil in the castle. Although she was weary from standing so long, focusing on first one and then another article, she was glad she’d done it. These things were hers, just as these people were hers.

  Not even the cheerful sitting room fire could entirely dispel the sense of encroaching night. A platter of cheese, cold meat, and yesterday’s bread waited for Alayna. Because the kitchen staff hadn’t had any rest between the preparations and then washing up and getting everything ready for the Counting, she was content with a simple meal. She hoped they weren’t too exhausted to make their own dinners.

  The best, perhaps the only way, to enjoy such a meal was to share it. A picnic—on Gwynn’s floor or hers, before the fire, yes. She went into her bedroom to the door that led to his and tapped. There was no answer. He might be out and about in the castle, although what that might be, she couldn’t guess.

  I’ll just make sure he has something to eat when he returns.

  The latch lifted easily. She could make out rumpled bedcovers, but no Gwynn. He’d slept, then. An odor clung to the air: stale sweat and wine from last night’s drinking.

  Alayna moved toward the sitting room, stepping carefully and silently, although she did not know why. They had gone back and forth between each other’s bedchambers many times. Yet when she placed her hand on the latch of the connecting door, her nerve almost failed her. She could not escape the feeling that she was doing something forbidden. That was nonsense, of course. She had every right to see how Gwynn fared after last night.

  Alayna closed her fingers around the latch. It lifted with a jerk. “Gwynn? Gwynn darling, are you there?”

  The sitting room held the same faintly sickly odor as the bedchamber, and was as empty. The hearth held nothing but ashes, and the only light came from three candle stubs, guttering as their wicks drowned in pools of wax. One chair lay on its side beside a heap of empty wine bottles, at least it looked like a heap. More than a couple, of that she was certain.

  With each passing day, Alayna longed for and dreaded the moment when she would encounter her husband again. She refused to demean herself by hovering around his quarters like a lovesick, abandoned bride, yet she found herself lingering where he might pass. Her pride led her to disguise her intentions as she prowled the corridors. She did not wa
nt his absence—or their estrangement—made public.

  I’ve got to stop obsessing about where my husband is, Alayna thought as she made her way back to her chambers. There is a perfectly rational explanation for why I haven’t seen him—why he’s been avoiding me—and I’ll find out in time. But meanwhile, this is ridiculous—infuriating—childish—

  She came to a halt just as the outer door to Gwynn’s quarters opened and Ruyven stepped through.

  “Good heavens,” she said.

  “My lady,” he responded.

  Alayna recovered herself. “Ruyven, it’s good to see you again. I hope you’ve been well.”

  He didn’t look well, for all that he was dressed with his usual elegance, every ornament in place. His eyes were red and a spiderwork of blood vessels ran along his nose.

  “I’m tolerably well, thank you,” he said. His voice held a slight hoarseness. “How can I serve you, vai domna?”

  “You can tell me where my husband is.”

  For an instant, his gaze flickered toward the door. She made as if to move past him toward it. He stepped neatly to block her path.

  Alayna reined her temper under control. “Is he in there?”

  “He is indisposed and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Did he tell you that, himself? Or are you playing watchdog for some purpose of your own?”

  That set him back on his heels. “My lady, I would never—” She took advantage of his moment of confusion to reach for the latch. “Please do not.”

  “Why not? What is going on that you are so determined—or should I say, so desperate—to keep from me?” Without waiting for his answer, she jerked the latch open and strode into Gwynn’s sitting room.