He departed to his chambers to make himself ready. My own preparations were far different. I gathered a supply of candles, pillow from his bed and a blanket, a bottle of wine and some victuals. I expected to crouch in my hiding place for several hours, and I was determined that this time I would be comfortable. Winter had clenched its grip on the castle over the last few days, and the hidden tunnels and corridors were chill and comfortless.
I bundled it all together, removing Gilly several times from my efforts. The ferret had become a social little fellow of late, greeting me with whiskers twitching and sniffing whenever we encountered one another in the hidden network. As much as he enjoyed his hunting and despite the numerous trophies he left about to demonstrate his prowess, he surprised me often by begging for raisins or bits of bread. These he seemed to relish hiding behind the scroll-rack or under the chairs more than he did eating them. His mind darted like a hummingbird, inquisitive and restless. Like most animals, he was completely uninterested in bonding with a human. Our Wit-sense of one another brushed often but never engaged. Still, he was companionably intrigued in what I did, and followed me curiously as I made my way through the cramped passages.
I arrived in plenty of time to witness the farewell banquet. I set my cushion upon a rickety stool that I had gathered on the way. I put my food on the dusty floor beside me and my candle and extra papers beyond it. I seated myself, wrapped the blanket about my shoulders and settled myself by the peephole. This one offered a good vantage, I decided with approval. From here, I could see the high dais and almost a third of the hall.
The winter finery of the Great Hall had been renewed. Evergreen boughs and garlands trimmed the entrances and hearths, and the minstrels played softly as folk entered and sought their places. All in all it reminded me very much of the Betrothal Ceremony, witnessed from a different angle. Embroidered cloths covered the long tables, and bread and fruit preserves and wine glasses awaited the guests. Southern incense, a gift from the Bingtown Traders, sweetened the air of the hall. There was a bit less ceremony as the dukes and duchesses entered this time. I suspected that even the nobility had become a bit weary of all the festivities and pomp of late. The Bingtown delegation, I noted with interest, came in with the lesser aristocrats and was seated well away from the Outislanders’ dais. I wondered if the distance would be enough to prevent sparks flying.
What I had begun to think of as Arkon Bloodblade’s contingent entered next. They seemed in high spirits, and were once more decked in their extravagant versions of Buckkeep garb. Heavy furs had been replaced with satin and velvet, lace had been used indiscriminately and the colours seemed to favour the red and orange section of the spectrum. Strange to say, it suited them well, both the men and the women. The barbaric excess in adopting our modes of dress made them the Outislanders’ own style. And that they had chosen to emulate some of our ways indicated to me that the doors would soon open wide to trade of all sorts. If Arkon Bloodblade had his way.
Peottre Blackwater and Elliania were not with them.
They still had not entered by the time the Queen and the Prince made their way to the high dais, with Chade trailing demurely behind them. I saw the Queen’s eyes widen with dismay, but she did not let it reach her smile. Prince Dutiful kept a lordly reserve, apparently not noticing that his intended had not yet seen fit to join the ceremony designed to honour her departure. When the Farseers had assumed their places, an awkward little delay ensued.
Ordinarily, the Queen would have ordered the servants to pour the wine and begun with a toast to her honoured guests. It had just reached the point at which folk had begun to mutter when Peottre Blackwater appeared at the entrance to the hall. He had retained his Out Island skins and chains but the richness of the furs and the gold that weighted his forearms bespoke his very best. He stood in the doorway until the startled murmur at his appearance had stilled. Then he stepped silently aside and the Narcheska entered. The narwhal symbol of her matriarchal line was picked out in ivory beads on her leather vest. It was trimmed with white fur, probably snowfox. She wore a sealskin skirt and slippers. Her arms and fingers were innocent of all jewelry. Her hair flowed unfettered as night down her back, and upon her head she wore a curious blue ornament, almost like a crown. It reminded me of something but I could not quite recall what.
She stood for a moment in the entrance. Her gaze met Kettricken’s and held it. Head up, she paced the length of the room towards the high dais with Peottre Blackwater coming slowly behind her. He let her lead him by enough that his presence did not distract from hers, but as always, he was close enough to protect her should any seek to do her harm. Never once did she look away from the Queen as she trod the length of the hall. Even when she ascended the steps to the dais, their gazes remained locked. When finally she stood before Kettricken, she made her a solemn curtsey, yet she did not bow her head nor avert her gaze as she did so.
‘I am so pleased you have joined us,’ Kettricken said graciously in a low voice. There was genuine welcome in her tone.
I thought for a moment that I saw a flicker of doubt pass over the Narcheska’s face. But then her resolve seemed to harden. When she spoke, her young voice was clear, her enunciation crisp and her voice pitched to carry. They were not private words she spoke. ‘I am here, Queen Kettricken of the Six Duchies. But I fear I have begun to have doubts that I will ever truly join you, as wife to your son.
She turned then, and her gaze slowly swept the assembly. Her father was sitting very straight. I surmised that her words were a surprise to him, one he sought to cover. The initial look of shock on the Queen’s face had been replaced with a cold and courteous mask.
‘Your words disappoint me, Narcheska Elliania Blackwater of the God Runes.’ That was all Kettricken said. She spoke no question that would have invited a reply. I saw Elliania hesitate, fumbling for a way to begin her planned speech. I suspected she had expected more of a reaction; a demand for an explanation. Lacking that introduction, she had no choice but to tone her words to meet the Queen’s attitude of polite regret.
‘I find that this betrothal does not meet my expectations, which are those of my mothers’ house. I was told that I would come here to promise my hand to a king. Instead I find my hand offered to a youngster who is but a prince, not even the King-in-Waiting, as you term one who learns the duties of his crown. This is not to my satisfaction.’
Kettricken did not reply immediately. She let the girl’s words die away. When she did speak, it was with simplicity, as if she were explaining something to a child who might be too young to understand it. The effect was that of a mature and patient woman addressing a wayward young girl. ‘It is unfortunate that you were not taught our customs in this manner, Narcheska Elliania. Prince Dutiful must be at least seventeen before he may be declared the King-in-Waiting. After that, it is up to his dukes to decide when he may be crowned as a full king. I do not expect it will take long for him to earn that responsibility.’ She lifted her eyes and scanned her dukes and duchesses as she spoke. She honoured them when she acknowledged their role and they were sensible of that. Most of them nodded sagely to her words. It was smoothly done.
I think Elliania sensed her moment slipping away from her. Her voice was just the least bit shrill and she spoke perhaps a second too soon when she said, ‘Nevertheless. If I accept my betrothal to Prince Dutiful now, none can deny that I am taking the chance of binding my fate to a prince who may never be declared King.’