Clack, clack, clack of gossip, all done to death today as Tristen paid his penny like a good Quinalt man, wearing a medal of holy martyr’s blood—attested by the most incorruptible, tiresome priest alive, one so holy even His Holiness avoided his company, Efanor’spriest, Jormys, him in the rope belt and rough-spun yonder.
Now perhaps they were saying, over there in that knot of gossipers, the wonder of it! the holy Jormys had converted a Sihhë-lord… when he knew damned well Jormys had been afraid to go into that room and only Efanor had gone.
He owed his brother a great favor for that act of courage.
“Cevulirn dances very well,” Ninévrisë said, plucking at his sleeve. “Do you see? And with Murandys’ niece.”
He did see. He had just caught sight of the couple. The thought of the gray, grim lord of Ivanor in the midst of an intricate paselle was astonishing in itself, but the duke of Ivanor had unexpected graces, back-to-back and then face-to-face with the duke of Murandys’ fair-haired younger niece in the quick-moving courtly patterns on the floor.
Now therewas a match. The lords did not favor one another.
The niece—Cleisynde was the name—was a stiffly Quinalt little piece. And looked far less graceful than did Cevulirn, as if she had never danced before. But her eyes, ah, her eyes worshiped. Cevulirn was a distinguished—and wifeless—lord.
“Cleisynde,” he said. “One of your ladies, is it not?”
“One of the more agreeable,” Ninévrisë said. Some were not. He knew, for instance, that Ryssand’s daughter Artisane was a particular thorn in Ninévrisë’s side, a bearer of tales straight from Ninévrisë’s small circle to her father. And Artisane, also in view, cast a predictable frown at Cevulirn every time the dance turned her from her own partner, Isin’s son.
“Ryssand’s daughter has eaten sour fruit,” he remarked. “Do you see? Is it Cevulirn’s partner she disapproves so publicly?”
“Artisane’s brother is dancing with Odrinian,” Ninévrisë said.
Oho. Sour grapes and bitter leaves for supper. He saw the couple in question: a pretty pair: Odrinian of Murandys, a child, youngest sister to his discarded mistress Luriel—a far kinder and less wise heart, Odrinian; and a merry bit of hell’s best work there was in that young whelp, the heir of Ryssand. Brugan was his name, vain ox.
“Don’t frown so,” Ninévrisë said.
“My former mistress. That is her sister.”
“Ah.” Ninévrisë’s hand, fine and strong, was locked on his between their thrones. “And now you repent?”
“In ashes,” he said, and at that instant a peal of thunder racketed through the hall, making both of them jump.
“I have kept no secrets,” he said, looking not at her, but straight ahead, at Odrinian and Brugan. Then he did glance aside. “And have given up all of them, I swear. Hence Murandys is not pleased, any more than Ryssand. I shall bring Luriel, to court only by your leave.”
“I give it,” Ninévrisë said, and her chin tilted in that way she had, the pretty girl of the miniature, the entrancing woman who had his heart. “I trust if I needed fear comparisons my lord would neverhave proposed she come.”
“Gracious lady. None. It would be a rescue for the lady. A kindness.”
“The lady is in distress?”
“Her father blames her, now. She languishes; in immodest, imprudent letters, protests she loved me, were not Amefel’s heretic ways so oppressive she could not stay with me there…”
“Oh?” A sidelong look. “And do you answer these letters?”
“I forgive them. They have accumulated to the number of three, in two months. I don’t think Lord Prichwarrin knows about the letters. I know they come through Odrinian. Luriel is despondent. Hates her father. Misses the festivities. Has no hope. And so on.”
“She would not be—” Ninévrisë left a delicate silence, beneath the sparkling music.
“I do think she would plead it; or manage it, if she dared. She wishes a recall to court, over her father’s wishes, declares she will drink poison else…”
“Good gods.”
“She will make someone an unfaithful wife. I have in mind Ursamin’s nephew.”
“He is notorious!”
“A matched set, I assure you.”
Ninévrisë looked at him. “And how many such? Orien Aswydd. Tarien, her sister…”
“Both safe in a Teranthine nunnery. And beyond that, women of ambitions more easily satisfied. I have confessed them all, already, every one.”
There was silence. A hand listless in his. His heart told him a conversation had skewed wide of its target, broached matters indelicate to have brought to light in this hall, before witnesses.
“If you wish to fling something,” he said quietly, “pray wait.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ninévrisë said, and fingers twitched to life and pressed his. “I only mark them down with the rest.”
Disturbing. “What ‘rest’?”
“Oh, the rest.” Ninévrisë’s eyes sparkled, just a little.
“The rest of what, pray? I have no faults!”
“So far their names are Luriel, Orien, Tarien…”
“Fisylle, Cressen, Trallynde, and Alwy.”
“Fisylle, Cressen, Trallynde, and Alwy. —Alwy? My maid?”
“I said that there were minor indiscretions.”
“Good gods.”
“And you said you would forgive me.”
“I had no notion they outnumbered the royal Guard. Should we march themacross the river? Or dare we give them arms?”
“Nevris, sweet love…”
“Dare I say Ihad suitors in Elwynor?”
Now his heart beat faster. “Less numerous than mine, I hope.”
“Oh…” The silence went on, beneath the music. Then cheerfully: “A list.”
“My lady Regent…”
“No more ‘sweet love’?”
They were in front of tenscore witnesses. He dared not leap up, stare at her from a slightly superior height, in his own hall. There was only that damnable, undignified block of stone, and only her hand within reach.
“To the last breath,” he swore. “Dance with me. You have me bothered. You have done it, fair.”
“The lady may come to court,” she adjudged quietly, and pressed his hand as he rose and drew her to her feet, careful of the damned step. The music and the dancers drifted to a stop.
“A country round,” he said to the musicians.
There was a murmur in the hall.
“I trust Your Grace can follow me,” he said, as the musicians wandered erratically into the sort of jouncing tune they played in the square. The thunder rumbled above the roof, and the drum rattled out a rhythm to the pipes. The lutenist confessed a peasant knowledge of the tune, “The Merry Lass from Eldermay. ”
No simple touching of hands, a linking of arms, a whirl, a sweep, a series of chaining steps, and he partnered a lightly moving wisp, a sprite, a whisper of satins and velvet, alone on the floor until Cevulirn partnered Cleisynde out. Then the young men persuaded young ladies, one after another, some quick to learn, some not, and some already knowing the measures. Old Lord Drusallyn brought his lady out, and then Mordam of Osenan and his portly wife dared the measure.
There were sour faces on some, laughter among the rest, most of whom watched in safety. “This is far more like Elwynor,” Ninévrisë said, on two breaths, back-to-back for a moment, then facing him, palms touching. Her eyes were gray, not violet: the miniature-painter of a year ago had tricked the eye with violets in her hair. They were gray as the rumored sea, gray as a cloudy day…
Gray as Tristen’s. Her dark hair and gray eyes were alike conspicuous in a land where the rule was fair hair and blue as his own. Her blue-and-white gown, the colors of Elwynor, swirled across the red and gold of his own kingdom, heraldry bright as battle flags. All eyes might watch as the old blood of Elwynor and the new of Ylesuin trod an autumn dance that might be old, itself. The Quinalt countenanced it, but deplored its license, slowed the music, discouraged the torch race around the bonfire and did not at all approve the offering of straw men; so the countryfolk threw in mere straw bundles, but it meant the same. Everyone knew.