Court Duel (3 page)

Bran and his two guests looked up as I approached, and I
realized that they had somehow gotten rid of their hats,
cloaks, and gloves.
To one of their servants?
I should
have seen to it, I realized, but I dismissed the thought. Too
late—and it wasn't as if I'd known they were coming.

Lady Nimiar smiled, and Bran gave me his reckless grin.
"Here y'are at last, Mel," he said. "We have something warm to
drink on the way?"

"Soon. Also had to arrange housing for all those people you
brought."

"Some of 'em are mine. Ours," he corrected hastily.

"Good, because we plan to put them all to work. The
servants' wing is all still open to the sky. We're having it
expanded. Had you ever
seen
the tiny rooms, and half
of them with no fire vents? Anyway, the first snows came so
early and so fierce we had to abandon the construction."

"They can go to the garrison," Bran said. "We saw it on the
way in. Looks nice and snug. Where'd you get all these new
books?"

"Bookseller in the capital. I'm trying to duplicate what
Papa destroyed, though nothing will restore the family
histories that no one had ever copied."

"Most of 'em were dull as three snoring bears, burn me if
they weren't!" he said, making a warding motion with one
hand.

I wished I'd had the chance to decide for myself, but there
was no purpose in arguing over what couldn't be fixed, so I
just shook my head.

Right then Julen came in, her face solemn and closed as she
bore the fine silver tray loaded with spiced hot wine and what
I recognized as the apple tart we would have had after dinner,
now all cut into dainty pieces and served with dollops of
whipped cream on the gold-and-blue edged porcelain plates that
were our last delivery before the roads were closed. She set
those down and went out.

Bran looked at me. "We serving ourselves?"

"Until we get some people from the inn," I said.

Bran sighed, getting up. "You were right, Nee. I ought to
have written ahead. Thought the surprise would be more fun!" He
moved to the table and poured out four glasses of wine.

Lady Nimiar also rose. She was short—just a little
taller than I—and had a wonderful figure that was round
in all the right places. I tried not to think how I compared,
with my skinny frame, and instead looked at her gown, which was
a fawn color, over a rich dark brown underdress. Tiny green
leaves had been embroidered along the neck, the laced-up
bodice, and the hems of sleeves and skirt. I felt shabbier than
ever—and studiously ignored the other guest—as I
watched her pick up two wineglasses, turn, and come toward me
without her train twisting round her feet or tripping her. She
handed one glass to me, and Bran carried one to Shevraeth. I
tried to think of some sort of politeness to speak out, but
then Bran held up his glass and said, "To my sister! Everything
you've done is better than I thought possible. Though," he
lowered his glass and blinked at me, "why are you dressed like
that? The servants look better! Why haven't you bought new
duds?"

"What's the use?" I said, feeling my face burn again.
"There's still so much work to be done, and how can I do it in
a fancy gown? And who's to be impressed? The servants?"

Lady Nimiar raised her glass. "To the end of winter."

Everyone drank, and Bran tried again. "To Mel, and what
she's done for my house!"

"Our house," I said under my breath.

"Our house," he repeated in a sugary tone that I'd never
heard before, but he didn't look at me. His eyes were on the
lady, who smiled.

I must have been gaping, because Shevraeth lifted his glass.
"My dear Branaric," he drawled in his most courtly manner,
"never tell me you failed to inform your sister of your
approaching change in status."

Bran's silly grin altered to the same kind of gape I'd
probably been displaying a moment before. "What? Sure I did!
Wrote a long letter, all about it—" He smacked his
head.

"A letter which is still sitting on your desk?" Shevraeth
murmured.

"Life! It must be! Curse it, went right out of my head."

I said, trying to keep my voice polite, "What is this
news?"

Bran reached to take the lady's hand—probably for
protection, I thought narrowly—as he said, "Nimiar and I
are going to be married midsummer eve, and she's adopting into
our family. You've got to come back to Athanarel to be there,
Mel."

"I'll talk to you
later."
I tried my very hardest
to smile at the lady. "Welcome to the family. Such as it is.
Lady Nimiar."

"Please," she said, coming forward to take both my hands.
"Call me Nee." Her eyes were merry, and there was no shadow of
malice in her smile, but I remembered the horrible laughter
that day in Athanarel's throne room, when I was brought as a
prisoner before the terrible King Galdran. And I remembered how
unreadable these Court-trained people were supposed to
be—expressing only what they chose to—and I looked
back at her somewhat helplessly. "We'll soon enough be sisters,
and though some families like to observe the formalities of
titles, I never did. Or I wouldn't have picked someone like
Branaric to marry," she added in a low voice, with a little
laugh and a look that invited me to share her humor.

I tried to get my clumsy tongue to stir and finally managed
to say, "Would you like a tour through the house, then?"

Instantly moving to Lady Nimiar's side, Bran said, "I can
show you, for in truth, I'd like a squint at all the changes
myself."

She smiled up at him. "Why don't you gentlemen drink your
wine and warm up? I'd rather Meliara show me about."

"But I—"

Shevraeth took Bran's shoulder and thrust him onto a
cushion.

"Sit."

Bran laughed. "Oh, aye, let the females get to know one
another."

Nimiar merely smiled.

So I led her all through the finished parts of the castle,
tumbling over my words as I tried to explain what I'd done and
why. When I let her get a word in, she made pleasant comments
and asked easy questions. By the time we were nearly done,
though I didn't know her any better, I had relaxed a little,
for I could see that she was exerting herself to set me at
ease. I reflected a little grimly on how maintaining an
unexceptionable flow of conversation was an art—one that
neither Bran nor I had.

We ended up downstairs in the summer parlor, whose great
glassed doors would in a few months look out on a fine garden
but now gave onto a slushy pathway lined by barren trees and
rosebushes. Still sitting where it had for nearly three decades
was my mother's harp.

As soon as Nimiar saw the instrument, she gave a gasp and
pressed her fingertips to her mouth. "'Tis a Mandarel," she
murmured reverently, her face flushed with excitement. "Do you
play it?"

I shook my head. "Was my mother's. I used to dance to the
music she made. Do you play?"

"Not as well as this instrument deserves. And I haven't
practiced for ages. That's a drawback of a life at Court. One
gets bound up in the endless social rounds and forgets other
things. May I try it sometime?"

"It's yours," I said. "This is going to be your home, too,
and for my part, I think musical instruments ought to be played
and not sit silent."

She caught my hand and kissed it, and I flushed with
embarrassment.

And just then the two men came in, both wearing their cloaks
again, and Bran carrying Nimiar's over his arm. "There you are.
Found Mama's harp?"

"Yes, and Meliara says I may play it whenever I like."

Bran grinned at me. "A good notion, that. Only let's have it
moved upstairs where it's warm, shall we?"

Nimiar turned at once to see how I liked this idea, and I
spread my hands. "If you wish," I said.

Bran nodded. "Now, Mel, go get something warm on, and we'll
take a turn in the garden and see what's toward outside."

"You don't need me for that," I said. "I think I'll go make
sure things are working smoothly." And before anyone could say
anything, I batted aside the door tapestry and fled.

THREE

AS SOON AS I REACHED MY ROOM I TOOK OUT THE Marquise's
letter and reread it, even though by then I knew it word for
word. It seemed impossible that Branaric's arrival on the same
day—with Shevraeth—was a coincidence.

I sighed. Now I could not ask my brother outright about this
letter. He was as tactless as he was honest. I could easily
imagine him blurting it out over dinner.
He
might find
it diverting, though I didn't think Shevraeth would, for the
same reason I couldn't ask him his opinion of Arthal Merindar:
because the last time we had discussed the possible replacement
for Galdran Merindar, I had told him flatly I'd rather see my
brother crowned than another lying courtier.

Remembering that conversation—in Shevraeth's father's
palace, with his father listening—I winced. It wasn't
just Bran who lacked tact.

Oria is probably right,
I thought glumly,
there
are too many misunderstandings between the Marquis and me.
The problem with gathering my courage and broaching the subject
was the very fact of the kingship. If I hadn't been able to
resolve those misunderstandings before Galdran's death, when
Shevraeth was just the Marquis, it seemed impossible to do it
now when he was about to take the crown. My motives might be
mistaken and he'd think me one of those fawning courtiers at
the royal palace. Ugh!

So I asked Oria to tell them I was sick. I holed up in my
room with a book and did my best to shove them all out of my
mind—as well as the mysterious Marquise of Merindar.

At sundown the next day there came a cough outside my room.
Before I could speak, the tapestry swung aside as if swatted by
an impatient hand, and there was Bran. "Hah!" he exclaimed,
fists on his hips. "I knew it! Reading, and not sick at all.
Burn it, Mel, they're our guests."

"They are your guests, and you can entertain them," I
retorted.

"You don't like Nee?" He looked upset.

I sighed. "She seems as nice as any Court lady could
possibly be, but how can she think I'm anything but an idiot?
As for that Shevraeth, you brought him. He's yours to
entertain. I don't need him laughing at me for my old clothes
and lack of courtly finesse."

"He isn't going to laugh at you, Mel," Bran said, running
his fingers through his hair. "Life! We didn't come all the way
up here to talk to ourselves. Nee's going to play the harp
before supper. She spent all afternoon retuning the thing. If
you don't come, after all I said about how you like music,
she'll get hurt—think you don't want her here. As for
your clothes, you must have
something
nice."

I remembered my two remade dresses. "All right," I said
grumpily. "I'll change and be right down."

He kissed the top of my head and left.

I opened my wardrobe, eyeing the two gowns. Most of my
mother's things had been ruined when the weather got into her
rooms. But we'd saved these, and Hrani the weaver had reworked
them to fit me. One was a plain gown Mama had used for
gardening, its fabric sturdy enough to have lasted. The other
had taken some patient restitching, but I really loved it. The
color was a soft gray blue, with tiny iridescent mois gems sewn
over the tight sleeves and edging the square neck. It gathered
at a high waist, opening onto a deep-blue skirt with gold birds
embroidered on it. I had a vague memory of her having worn it,
and I liked the idea of having something of hers for
myself.

Besides, I thought it looked nice on me. She'd been a little
taller, but otherwise our builds were much alike. I put the
gown on, combed out my hair and rebraided it, and wrapped it up
in its accustomed coronet.

Then I went down to the upper parlor that they seemed to
have adopted. I could hear random notes from the harp, a
shivery pleasant sound that plucked at old and beloved
memories, just as wearing the gown did.

I slipped through the door tapestry, and three faces turned
toward me.

And my dear brother snorted. "Mel! Where are your wits gone
begging? Why d'you have to wear an old gown thirty years
out-of-date when you can have anything you want?"

I turned right around and started to leave, but Nimiar rose
and sped to my side, her small hand grasping my gem-encircled
wrist. "This is a lovely dress, and if it's old, what's the
odds? A lady has the right to be comfortable in her own
home."

Bran rubbed his chin. "Don't tell me you ever looked like
that
?"

"Oh, Branaric. Take Lord Vidanric up to dinner. I'll play
afterward. The harp isn't ready yet."

"But—"

"Please," she said.

Shevraeth's lips were twitching. He jerked his chin toward
the doorway and my brother followed, protesting all the
way.

My eyes stung. I stood like a stone statue as Nimiar sighed
then said, "Your brother is a dear, and I do love him for the
way he never fears to tell the truth. But he really doesn't
understand some things, does he?"

"No," I squeaked. My voice seemed to come from someone
else.

Nimiar ran her fingers along the harp strings and cocked her
head, listening to the sounds they produced. "No one," she
said, "—well, no ordinary person—sits down to a
harp and plays perfectly. It takes time and training."

I nodded stupidly.

She dropped her hands. "When Branaric came to Athanarel, he
knew nothing of etiquette or Court custom. Arrived wearing
cast-off war gear belonging to Lord Vidanric, his arm in a
dirty sling, his nose red from a juicy cold. There are those at
Court who would have chewed him like jackals with a bone,
except he freely admitted to being a rustic. Thought it a very
good joke. Then he'd been brought by the Marquis, who is a
leader of fashion, and Savona took to him instantly. The Duke
of Savona is another leader. And ..." She hesitated. "And
certain women who also lead fashion liked him. Added was the
fact that you Astiars have become something of heroes, and it
became a fad to teach him. His blunt speech was a refreshing
change, and he doesn't care at all what people think of him.
But you do, don't you?" She peered into my face. "You
care—terribly."