A Posse of Princesses (34 page)

This was right before the attack—well, war stories
are boring, that much I’ve learned having to listen to these
barnacled old captains telling us how easy we young ones have it,
and how tough things were in the old days. Even weather. All that
aside, I wonder if I might be seeing you at a certain event next
spring—or not. The thought of seeing you again makes me as clumsy
as the boy I was. I think I’d better put down this pen and make
certain there are no lurking barrels of flour.

A Joint Communique from Damatras and The
Kingdom of the High Plains:

With Respectful Compliments to Her Highness, Rhis of
Nym, from her Royal Highness Taniva of High Plains, soon to be
Queen of Damatras: Your Highness is Requested by the Royal Pair to
grace their Marriage Ceremony with your Royal Presence, on Spring
First-Day

. . . Rhis. I finally learn enough of your alphabet
so I write to you myself. I do not write much letters, but I
remember you with good feelings. I want you to come if you can. I
will tell you about my raid. We abducted Jarvas. Good fun by all,
though some bumps and bruises until everyone was agreed. Including
Jarvas. We made our fathers go to treaty table. Stop many threats.
Maybe now we can have games again—our girls and boys, Damatran
girls and boys. Too many have cousins on either side of border. My
hand tired now. Taniva.

You will come? Hai, if you do, I have an idea.
Taniva almost fell out of the window laughing. We will scare the
braids off my father. He keeps dreaming you’re going to come back
and steal his crown. We’ve got to nick it—and the joke is, he’s got
it locked behind about twelve doors. Say you will come. Jarvas.

“It is
such
a relief to be able to
talk without spies,” Shera exclaimed as she climbed into Rhis’s
carriage, plumped down onto the opposite cushioned bench, and
disposed her skirts prettily. Then she started fussing with her
hair and her little travel bag.

Rhis gestured to the waiting
escort-commander, and her cavalcade began to move. Rhis had thought
that a troop of tough Mountain Riders as well as two carriages
worth of servants, and another carrying baggage, were far more than
a princess of little Nym needed to attend a friend’s wedding, but
her father had said, “No, no, you’ll go as we see fit. You’re not
just a princess of Nym any more.”

And her mother had agreed.

Rhis knew what was meant. And even though she
was twenty-one years old, had traveled to the imperial court, had
danced with three kings, had shared spiced ice with an
emperor-elect, had talked with one of the Snow Folk in a language
not native to either of them, she still blushed whenever anyone
made reference to Lios. She’d begun to wonder during the last year
if the blushes had just plain become a habit.

“He might not like me,” she exclaimed,
exasperated. “Or I him. I mean, we might like one another fine, but
feel like brother and sister, or—or he’ll like me but he’s fallen
in love with someone else.”

“Have you fallen in love with someone else?”
her mother had asked.

Rhis had certainly been attracted to others.
Especially to the emperor-elect, but she’d recognized early on that
that was because he reminded her so much of Lios. Only he was a
mage journeyman, not a scribe. But he’d had the same serious air
that would change all of a sudden into a sense of fun. And he’d had
the same regard for people, seeing them just as people, not as
representatives of rank.

“No,” she said finally. “But we all know that
what one feels doesn’t guarantee what the other will feel.”

“Nevertheless,” her father said. “Everyone in
our corner of the world thinks of you as the next queen of Vesarja.
Whether or not that is true, you may as well have the entourage of
a queen, because you will be treated like one.”

“That means the flatterers and falsity,” Elda
put in, for this discussion was at the family dinner.

“You must remember that you’ll be hearing
what they think you want to hear. If you believe any of it, that’s
at your own peril.” That was Princess Shera, now turned sixteen,
speaking with such an air of importance that Rhis smothered a
laugh.

Elda nodded approvingly. “Well said, my dear.
Well said.”

Of course. Because that’s what you have
said
, Rhis thought, but kept her peace.

Her reverie was interrupted when Shera flung
herself back against the cushions with a loud sigh. “It’s so
good
to get out of Gensam again!”

“I thought you got back together with Rastian
again,” Rhis exclaimed.

“Sort of.” Shera shrugged her pretty, rounded
shoulders. The new style was for wide, rounded necklines, tight
bodices, and tulip-shaped skirts which looked wonderful on her.
“Four times, all told.” She grinned, dimples flashing in her
cheeks. “But last night, when he said he wanted to sneak along as a
guard just to keep an eye on me, we had a big fight. I told him he
could go guard a tree or a rock, something that had the patience to
listen.”

Rhis said with sympathy, “I’m sorry he wasn’t
invited.”

“I’m not. He only wanted to come so he could
glower at anyone I might flirt with. Will flirt with,” Shera
corrected in a fair-minded tone. “I can’t help it. I love to flirt.
I love romance. Papa took me aside last year and told me that I’m a
lot like his side of the family—more in love with the idea of
falling in love than with a person. And though Rastian and I are
friends—mostly—I don’t want to marry him . . .” She fluttered her
hands. “I still want romance. Rastian’s as romantic as an old pair
of shoes.” She sighed. “Maybe when I’m older I’ll settle down. Like
Papa did.” She looked out the window and said in a casual voice,
“Do you happen to know if Glaen was invited?”

“No.”

“Well. Tell me about that robe. The
embroidery is amazing, it’s like brocade, so it doesn’t look dull,
but a robe? Or is that the fashion in Charas-al-Kherval?”

“It is,” Rhis acknowledged.

“And you’re wearing empire fashions
here
? Woo, even Iardith would be impressed—if she were
coming. But I hear everyone wrote to Taniva saying they’d come only
if she didn’t, and then Taniva told, oh who was it? Oh anyway,
Jarvas wouldn’t have her, so that’s that.”

“I’m wearing empire fashions because skinny
people look awful in those wide-necked dresses with the tight
waists and the skirts draped over hips I don’t have. I love these
robes.”

Shera scanned the soft layers of gauzy silk
with a critical eye, then gave a nod. “You do look good. What do
you want to wager you start a new fashion?”

Rhis laughed. “We’ll see! What I really want,
though, is to hear some of your music. Come on. Our last journey
together we made music, and were just beginners. Now you’re leading
musical fashions, and I want to be the first to hear your new
songs.”

Shera sat upright. “You can be the first to
hear the song I made for their wedding gift! I think it’s my best
yet—I’ve got a triple counterpoint in a 5/4 rhythm—”

“5/4? That’s impossible!”

“Oh, no it’s not! It’s a delightful rhythm,
like galloping horses—they will
love
that.” She demonstrated
on her lap. “And just
ravishing
chord changes. Oh, if I
don’t have everyone singing it by the end of the week, may I turn
into a croaking toad!”

oOo

Everyone assured one another that the
wonderful thing about the weather so very high up was, you could
wear your very best clothes and be certain you wouldn’t wilt from
the lowland heat.

Otherwise, the old fortress overlooking Lake
Skyfall, which officially lay on the border between the Kingdom of
High Plains and Damatras, was beautiful in a grand, austere way. An
army of servants had done their best to make it more festive for
the noble and royal visitors arriving from as far away as the
Island of Wilfen. Brightly woven cushions softened the stone
benches, and colorful territorial banners hung everywhere, rippling
in the brisk mountain winds.

Jarvas and Taniva together received most of
the guests, when they weren’t seeing to other matters. Rhis’s
arrival caused no little stir, and the royal pair were both on hand
when the six matched horses galloped round the last bend into a
grand courtyard lined with stone statues of rearing horses.

Shera, face to the window in order to
thoroughly enjoy the commotion their arrival caused, gave a loud
gasp. “I see Lios! There he is!” She jabbed her finger against the
glass, almost breaking it. “Ow. He’s there—and with
Hanssa!
G-r-r-r, the rotter!”

Rhis felt her heart constrict. She did not
lunge at the window, but nothing in the world could have prevented
her from sending a fast glance past Shera’s shoulder. How strange
it is that one can travel for five years, and meet hundreds of
people, but a flickering glimpse of no more than the shape of a
shoulder, the way his brown hair waved back over his ears, and she
knew him immediately. And once again the sun poured its light right
out of the sky and through her bones.

Leaning on his arm was a tiny lady, dainty
and graceful as a butterfly, her gold-touched red hair pulled back
on either side of her head as she laughed up at Lios. He was partly
hidden by a press of spectators. For a heartbeat they were poised,
then they were swallowed in the crowd.

“. . . that rotter.” Shera sniffed. “He’s
worse
than Rastian! He—”

“Wait,” Rhis said. “Wait. There has to be a
reason for what we saw.”

“Yes,” Shera said, fuming. “Unless what we
saw
was
the reason.”

Like screaming nightmare creatures, all the
worst explanations ran through Rhis’s mind, but she’d learned not
to latch onto what hurt worst, just because it was too easy for
pain to impose its own logic.

“Lios,” she said, “was never mean.”

Shera said, “Unless he’s changed.”

“If he’s changed that much, as well I find
out, right?” Rhis retorted lightly, but Shera wasn’t listening.
“There’s Glaen,” she said softly, as Shera gasped.

Shera isn’t trying to make trouble, she
loves drama
, Rhis reminded herself as the carriage rolled to a
stop. Tears and laughter, anger and forgiveness, rush forward and
fade back—romance for Shera was like a dance, or like her music,
with all the rainbow of emotions. But like a rainbow, they were
soon gone.

Rhis felt a little wistful as she stepped
out, and then she couldn’t think at all because Taniva gripped her
wrists and pulled her into a rib-cracking hug. Then, exclaiming so
fast that Rhis could not understand her, Taniva pushed her at
Jarvas, who thumped Rhis heartily on the shoulder with such
enthusiasm Rhis hoped she’d be able to use her arm afterward.

But it was good to see them both—even Jarvas.
Even Jarvas’s wily old father, still hale and hearty, lumbering
forward himself to offer Rhis his arm. “I’ll take you in,” he
said.

“I promise I’m not going to steal anything,”
Rhis replied, smiling up into the king’s ruddy face.

He gave a great laugh as he waved aside the
waiting guests, and they scattered like chickens in a yard. “No,
no! Seems to me you’ll be too busy to steal! Come along, Jarvas,”
he called over his shoulder. “You’ve done your duty until the next
one comes along—now lend a hand, lend a hand.”

He pointed a massive finger, as the guests
over on the other side of the room parted, and there stood Lios and
Hanssa. Rhis scarcely had time to register Shera’s loud sniff
before Jarvas thrust his way amid the guests, stopped in front of
Hanssa. He then stuck his elbow out in the most approved courtly
manner, and Hanssa slid her arm round his. And they started off—the
red-haired duchess’s daughter hopping at every other step.

And though the Damatran queen was waiting to
be introduced, and there were half-a-dozen old friends to be
greeted, Rhis had eyes only for the slim fellow of medium height
now left alone, whose smile was the old smile she’d cherished so
dearly, a smile she did not know was mirrored brightly in her own
face.

Then they were next to one another: all she
heard was her own name on his exhalation, “Rhis.”

She held out her hands, he took hers, slid
her arm within his, and she sensed in his wheeling about that he
became aware of their surroundings at the same moment she did. And
so they blended into the crowd as new arrivals clattered into the
courtyard beyond the double doors, all of whom had to be greeted
and exclaimed over. Lios introduced Rhis to Jarvas’s mother, who
had returned to Damatras to see her son married: that had obviously
been a treaty marriage, but it had stayed friendly enough.

Then there were many old friends to greet and
to catch up on. Some Rhis had seen in other places over her five
years, others—all the Vesarjans—she had not seen since she
left.

Glaen was the first one to greet her,
grabbing her up and swinging her around before setting her down:
his courtly manners were all but gone, now that he was a second in
command of a merchant marine fleet. He was as skinny as ever, his
hair, nearly bleached white, still hanging in his eyes. He wore his
green officer’s coat with more pride than he’d ever worn velvet or
lace, and showed Rhis proudly each pin or medal he’d earned in
working with the allied fleets to beat back the waves of pirates
infesting the coast.

“Princess Yuzhyu wanted to be here, of
course,” Glaen said. “She told me to personally greet you, and beg
you to visit her in Ndai.”

“She can’t get away even for a short stay?”
Rhis asked.

“Not with things as they are,” Glaen said
with a brief scowl. “But I’m not going to spoil this wedding with
talk about the Djurans or their evil allies.”

Breggan was also there, two years married to
Thirash, who greeted Rhis like an old friend. And so the day
flitted by, filled with talk and laughter, then music and dance,
always within arm’s reach of Lios, who seemed to want to be as
close by her as she wanted to be by him.