Duty (Book 2) (13 page)

“I will stand with you, First Mother.”

“Excellent. With my beauty and your reputation, we will make short work of the room and have ample time for other entertainments. I thank you and hope you do not feel ill-used. Did you bring a present for my daughter?”

“I did.”

“It must be small. What is it?”

“You will have to wait and see. I doubt I will give it to her at the Presentation. It is a poor gift compared to those I saw being dragged in yesterday. I don’t have my income from Blackshire yet.”

Mirelle squeezed his arm. “Ah! You should have told me, Gen! I would have set you up with a nice sum. But don’t worry too much. The gift giving is really a contest for the nobles to see who can outdo the other. It’s actually quite annoying. By the way, when is your birthday?”

“I have no idea.”

“You don’t even know how old you are?”

“Not precisely. I am around the same age as your daughter, give or take a year or two.”

When they arrived at the doors of the Great Hall, the party was in full gallop, a happy roar of music, laughter, and talk echoing into the hallway. Chamberlain Hurney introduced them grandly. Gen took the time to assess the room, noticing the Padras, Athan included, skulking about the fringes of the assembly, keeping to themselves. Both Ethris and Kaimas were absent, having left some days earlier, apparently in each other’s company—which surprised Gen. Their manner toward each other had always seemed cold.

“You have more titles than I do,” Mirelle observed as they walked inside to a great deal of bowing. Chertanne sat at a table against a wall, mug in hand. He looked nervous and out of sorts, and Gen wondered if his yet absent father had anything to do with it. Cadaen fell in behind them as soon as the First Mother entered the room, and Gen felt grateful for his presence. Several men in the crowd gaped at Mirelle with naked passion on their faces, and Gen employed his first few moments at the festivities shooting warning glances back. To his delight, his disturbing countenance and fierce glare proved more than adequate to discourage the lusty celebrants.

“I shall have to bring you along more often, Lord Blackshire,” Mirelle commented after a few minutes. “Now that the world knows I can take a consort soon, I’ve spent great deal of time at these kinds of occasions fending off those hungry for power, my passion, or both. With you it appears I shall be left blissfully alone.”

“Inform me if there is a potential consort out there I should refrain from scaring away.”

“Scare them all.”

After they greeted several of the Regency from Rhugoth and Warlords from Aughmere, the Chamberlain’s voice rose again. “May I present the Most Holy Chalaine, Mother of God, Future High Queen of the World, the Healer.”

All music and talking stopped as the congregation genuflected at her entry.

“Rise and continue,” she said, and Gen noted the slight tension in her voice and wondered what was worrying her. She approached her mother quickly. She wore blue, the first time Gen had seen her in a color other than white at a public presentation.

“Mother, Gen, it is good to see you both.”

“And you, Chalaine. Look who I caught for an escort,” the First Mother said, pulling Gen in tight. “Shall I make him dance with me?”

“I need to borrow him for a moment, if I could.”

“I think you should pay your respects to your fiancé first,” the First Mother admonished, “or I think he will become upset and perhaps get drunk and loud rather sooner than usual. Kaimas left four days ago and I fear he is already slipping into old habits.”

“Yes, yes,” the Chalaine said distractedly. “You are right. I fear I may be too late. I will return as quickly as possible. It is important.”

She walked away only to be thronged by a horde of admirers, and before long Mirelle and Gen found themselves entrenched in a spate of visits that required the same mechanical and polite conversation repeatedly.

Mirelle handled it deftly, managing to sound fresh at each new encounter, while Gen found the words ‘thank you’ coming out more gratingly each time someone would compliment him for his work. The First Mother did manage to take care of one of her items, denial of an annexation of property, during the brief visits.

A halt in the music and a call for silence gave them a welcome distraction from their conversations.

“First Mother, Gentlemen and Gentlewomen,” the court bard said grandly, “it is with great pleasure that I present the Ha’Ulrich and the Chalaine who will dance to the Swallow’s Wade for the court.”

Gen knew the song and how to dance it; it was a tune for the young and in love, energetic and romantic.

“Interesting. Another one of Chertanne’s stunts to prove his love?” Gen asked as the Chalaine and Chertanne took the floor.

“I arranged it,” Mirelle admitted.

“Really? Your daughter will no doubt have words for you afterward.”

“Perhaps, but I hope she understands why,” the First Mother whispered in his ear. “It is starting to get around, and I mean everywhere, that the two dislike and ignore each other, so I’m hoping this will help settle the rumors—well, the truth—a little bit. The rift between them will hurt the morale of the people, at least in Rhugoth and Tolnor. Besides, I didn’t teach her to dance for nothing.”

Gen nodded his understanding, amazed at Mirelle’s ability to deal with so many issues at once.

The dance went by slowly to Gen’s reckoning. Chertanne danced ably, though he looked a little ridiculous doing it, but the Chalaine performed each move perfunctorily and with no pleasure. Gen riveted his stare on Chertanne, hoping to remind him to behave, but even dancing with the most beautiful woman ever born could not wipe away the concern Gen had noticed on the Ha’Ulrich’s face earlier. A weight pressed upon Chertanne, and Gen thought the sober result a definite improvement upon his character.

The dance ended to polite clapping, and after a formal bow, the two went separate ways. Mirelle bit her lip, face concerned.

“I doubt that helped allay any fears,” she commented quietly. Gen nodded his agreement. The talk in the room had barely started afresh when again the court bard called for attention.

“It is my great honor to announce that the Chalaine has requested her mother and her escort perform a dance for us of her choosing.”

Gen groaned inwardly and Mirelle laughed. The assembly clapped and shouted their approval.

“There’s good girl,” Mirelle whispered, leading Gen toward the center of the floor. “At last she has learned that turnabout is fair play. You know the Swallow’s Wade, don’t you?”

“Of course, but. . .”

“Good. We need to show them how it is done.”

And show them they did. Gen had never danced with a partner as capable or enthusiastic as the First Mother of Rhugoth, and, while he felt reluctant at first, Mirelle’s energy drew him into the dance. Nothing existed save her and the rhythm, and when the music stopped, the crowd applauded thunderously—the Padras excepting. The First Mother gripped his hand and they both bowed as performers would, after which Mirelle hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.

“She favors him overmuch,” Chertanne complained nearby. “She hasn’t danced with me at all, and I’m her future son-in-law!”

“That will give them something else to talk about,” the First Mother said as they walked arm in arm from the floor. The Chalaine caught up with them quickly.

“I need to speak with him, mother. We will discuss my dance partners later.”

The Chalaine came to Gen’s side and took his arm. Gen realized he’d just left the company of the second most beautiful woman for the company of the first and started to feel extraordinarily fortunate. He thought the Chalaine would comment on the dance, but instead she directed him up the stairs to the balcony where fewer people loitered about. Athan watched them, face displeased. The doors to the outside balconies were open, the air refreshing and brisk. As was often the case in the spring, where the sun shone was warm and where it did not was chill.

“Gen,” the Chalaine said, voice worried, “we will see Shadan Khairn today. How can I face him? I saw what he did to you and to Regina. How can I not hate him for your sake? And what will you do? Please do not fight him. I know it is hypocritical to ask it, but no good can come from it.”

“I will not fight him, Chalaine,” Gen answered calmingly. “We will need his sword and his experience. I will forbear my own desire for justice for the good of us all.”

“Thank you, Gen,” the Chalaine said, squeezing his arm. “I have worried so.”

“As for facing your future father-in-law, just do the bare minimum to satisfy propriety, which isn’t much in this case. Just approach him as you did the dance with Chertanne.”

The Chalaine nodded. “I did poorly, then?”

“Far be it from me to tell the Holy Chalaine she danced badly. I will say, rather, that you did exactly what was needed to finish the task and no more.”

“My mother certainly did more than what was needed ‘to finish the task.’ I suppose she was a bit more fortunate in her partner than I.”

“Her partner had little to do with it. She is a spirited dancer.”

The Chalaine replied with a dissatisfied ‘humph’ and pulled Gen back toward the stairs.

“So why blue?” Gen asked as they descended.

“Birthdays need color. I’m not required to be ‘Her White-clad Holiness’ today. When is your birthday?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh, come now. What day did you celebrate on?”

“Commoners in Tolnor don’t celebrate birthdays. All this fuss, bother, and horde exchange is a game for nobility.”

“And you are now nobility,” the Chalaine said, “so welcome to our little game. We shall have to declare a proper birthday for you.”

“You and your mother can work one out. She asked about it as well. But on the subject of presents, I caught a glimpse of some of the ones the servants stored yesterday. I think there is a statue in there somewhere.”

“Another one?” the Chalaine asked unhappily.

“You have some already?”

“Yes. There’s a whole room full of them somewhere in the castle. All of them depict me unveiled, fantasies of the artists, so they were deemed inappropriate to put in the garden or in the Square. Most are based on my mother.”

“I would like to see them. Do any of them look like you?”

“Not really.”

“Can I have one? My room needs decoration.”

“No.”

The music and talking stopped as the Chamberlain banged his staff on the floor again.

“May I present Torbrand Khairn, Shadan of Aughmere and King of Tolnor. Father of the Ha’Ulrich, master swordsman.”

Gen’s back stiffened. Torbrand strode confidently through the doors, in appearance much the same as he was the day he emerged from Bernard Showles’s house—tall, confident and commanding. He wore all black save for red trim on his coat and pants. His sword in scabbard, etched indelibly in Gen’s mind, hung at his side, and his eyes darted around the crowd.

At last they fell on Gen. Gen met his former master’s eye, concentrating on controlling his thoughts and reactions. Khairn ignored the still-silent crowd and walked forward, a grin on his face. No one spoke. Gen wondered how much information about the nature of his training was known to those besides the Chalaine and her inner circle. Jaron rushed toward them and urged a reluctant Chalaine to follow him.

“Find me after,” she said after acquiescing to Jaron’s demand and Gen’s insistence.

Gen nodded and tried to relax, knowing Shadan Khairn would sense his tension and see it as weakness.

“So, Gen,” Torbrand said, hands on hips, studying Gen from top to bottom. “I must say you cleaned up well. You look fit. Should I take the Chalaine’s departure as a sign that we are to fight, or have you seen reason and are being overly cautious?”

“There will be no fighting.” The crowd visibly relaxed. “There is more important work to do and you will help me do it.”

“Of course I will, but I’ve been wondering something.”

Torbrand’s hand darted for his sword hilt and Gen drew his own in an instant. The nobles gasped at the display of steel and the Dark Guard scrambled into a protective position around the Chalaine. Torbrand laughed heartily and resheathed his sword. Gen followed suit, feeling foolish.

“You are still fast. Wonderful,” Torbrand effused. “My apologies to the First Mother if I have offended her Court. It was merely a test for my student. Where is Chertanne?”

The people parted to reveal the Shadan’s son, who had turned a sickly pale color from drink, fear, or both. He turned even whiter on seeing his father. Torbrand strode forward until he stood in front of him, examining him for several long moments in much the same way he had Gen. Chertanne stood as straight as he could, but he had difficulty meeting his father’s eye.

“Chalaine,” Torbrand said, turning back to find her in the crowd. “I am truly sorry. If you’d like, I’ll burn a black circle above Gen’s eye and you can marry him. Why is it so quiet in here? I thought this was a party.”

The musicians began haltingly as Torbrand went in search of food and conversation with his Warlords, affronting Rhugothian aristocracy by his complete disregard for the First Mother. Chertanne exhaled, angry but relieved.