Stranger At The Wedding (2 page)

Kyra wondered if the Church's tame wizards still routinely set spells of scry-ward on sacred buildings—it was a practice that had fallen into abeyance in many cities. Just like Alix not to know. Of course she might very well scry in the crystal to see the procession. If the marriage was to be celebrated by the elaborate ceremonials prescribed by the Holy Texts, that alone should be something to behold.

Or water—water-scrying sometimes worked even against spell-wards…

She shuddered suddenly as the memory flooded back of water darkening to crimson, of the hot feral stink.

She shook her head, sickened. No, she thought, not water.

Just as well that she had her examinations to study for and this curious skew in her magic to occupy her attention. It would give her something to think about other than the hurt of an exile it had taken her six years to forget.

Around the fire the seniors, the master-wizards, were talking quietly, sharing journals and correspondence and old jests among themselves. Her teachers, her colleagues to be. Not perfect—last spring's upheavals with renegade magic had left their mark on the faces of Phormion and Otaro, and at the moment Bentick was fussing about the iniquity of the village contractors hired to rebuild one of the Citadel's covered bridges that had been wrecked in the confusion—but closer to her in some ways than her family had ever been.

There wasn't one of them, she reflected, whose family would be comfortable about admitting a connection. They had chosen one another, passing through this pain she now felt to the serenity of their chosen path.

As would she, one day.

Herb tea and patience, indeed!

“Oh, my God.”

In the nearly twenty years Kyra had known Barklin Briory, she had never seen her father's butler shaken from the magisterial calm imposed by her office. But by the look on Briory's round, stern face when she opened the door and saw what waited for her on the tall brick porch in the misty twilight, it was clearly touch and go.

“Miss…” Briory swallowed hard. “Miss Kyra.”

“In the flesh.” Kyra pushed back the black woolen hood from her hair, picked up the battered tapestry satchel that had been her only luggage when she had left Angelshand six years before, and breezed past the stunned servant and on into the hall. “I take it I haven't missed the wedding. Is my father at home?”

The great central hall of the house hadn't changed. Above the honeycomb pattern of faded yellow sandstone tiles it rose to the full height of the building, galleried at the second and third stories where doors opened into the living and sleeping quarters of the family. The rafters, forty feet above her head, had been freshly painted, their carved flowers touched up with crimson and cobalt and their edges freshly gilt, and the gilding around the house shrine of the Holy Widow Wortle had been renewed as well. A new hanging of plum-colored velvet covered the niche where the family's ancestral masks were kept. Lilacs, tuberoses, and towering sprays of stock brightened the hall's corners like multicolored bonfires, though the cold of the room deadened their scent. Outside, the house didn't have much in the way of facade—none of the fortresslike mansions that fronted onto Baynorth Square did, their owners being far more interested in cherishing their goods indoors than in display for the undeserving hoi polloi in the streets—but its porch and steps had been set with urns of thick-fleshed gardenias, and chains of smilax and ivy swagged above the massive front doors. Personally, Kyra thought the effect rather like that of a lace cap on a bull, but she knew hothouse gardenias were very expensive this time of year, and as far as her father was concerned, that was the point.

“Yes, miss.” Briory's blue eyes bulged somewhat as she surveyed the tapestry satchel and its implications sank into her appalled consciousness. “That is… I will inquire. If you would care to wait in the book-room…”

She curtseyed just slightly as Kyra strode past her toward the carved door at the foot of the stairs. The curtsey, Kyra guessed, had cost the butler some inner debate, but she knew Briory could conduct such debates with the speed and efficiency of the weaving machines in the new steam-run factories down by the river. To have curtsied as to a member of the family would, of course, have been to disregard Master Gordam Peldyrin's formal disavowal of his eldest child; to omit all mark of recognition would have been to relegate a member of the family to the status of a tradesman. There were those—the butler almost certainly among them—who would say that Kyra had sunk herself far below even that status, but Briory thought too much of the rest of the household to admit it.

“Thank you.” Kyra caught herself with practiced ease on the book-room door jamb as she tripped on the marble threshold; Briory closed her eyes briefly. In some unacknowledged corner of her mind, she'd clearly been hoping this was all a nightmare. But no nightmare would have included Miss Kyra tripping over her own feet.

In a moment the butler followed her in, carrying the tapestry satchel as if it contained snakes and poison.

The first hurdle cleared
, Kyra thought. For days she'd lived with the fear that she wouldn't even be admitted to the house.

She reached out with her mind to kindle the lamps on her father's desk, more for Briory's sake than for her own. As a wizard, she could see clearly in the dark. The butler started almost imperceptibly as, within their glassy chimneys, the wicks sprang into flame, immediately followed by the lights of the seven-branched porcelain candelabra on the room's long table. At the Citadel Kyra had forgotten the effect such things had on those who weren't used to being around the mageborn. The rosy amber glow broadened over the shelves of her father's ledgers, year after year of corn bought and sold, of sea coal and wood for the five bakeries operating in various corners of the city, of purchase orders for the great charity hospitals and barracks, of investments in merchant ships, tenements in Southwall, farms. A twinge of guilt plucked at her like sharpened tweezers at the sight of the abacus and wax calculating tablets on the table, the pens and blotters grouped like sleeping pets around the candelabra's base. Who helps him in here now?

Not Alix, that was certain.

A fire still flickered low in the grate, its warmth, after the chill of the hall, welcoming. When Briory left her, Kyra walked to the shelves and ran her hand gently along the backs of those prosaic brown books. At one time she had known every page of them. There were dozens exclusively in her handwriting: the dull earth from which flourished the gay colors of the Peldyrin family's wealth.

Those colors lay in great rolls immediately beneath the bookshelves, bannerets and pennoncels and hangings to decorate the house for the wedding feast. All new, she saw, the purple and yellow of the Peldyrins fresh and unfaded. Among them she discerned the softer buff and blue of Lord Earthwygg, her father's noble patron at the Emperor's Court. She bent to examine the big hangings more closely and smiled. They were embroidered and appliquéd rather than painted, of course.

She rose, smiling, and dusted off her hands. “Trust Father,” she said aloud, “to have nothing but the best.”

“You mean trust Father to let everyone know how much we can afford.”

Kyra spun around with such suddenness that she knocked over the nearest pennon staff and, in scrambling to catch it, overset three more. The beautiful nymph who had been framed in the book room doorway laughed and ran to her side, helping her prop the long bundles against the wall again.

“Good heavens, Alix!” Kyra stepped back in surprise, and her sister caught her in a delighted embrace. It was strange to feel the younger girl's chin on her collarbone, those delicate shoulders high enough for her to put her arms around them.

“Are you surprised I've grown?”

“Certainly not. You'd have looked tremendously silly if you'd remained four feet, seven inches tall all your life.” Stepping clear to look at her, Kyra was a little breathtaken nevertheless, although she'd known even six years before that Alix would be beautiful. Even this beautiful.

Alix was, in fact, everything that her older sister was not or was slightly too much of: tall enough to set off the hooped skirts of her lettuce-green silk gown without Kyra's gawkiness, with enough amber in her eyes to lighten their brown to brightness without those disconcerting tawny glints. The dark rust of her older sister's hair survived only as a burnishing flame in the masses of golden curls, and while the red hair was coarse textured to frizziness on wet days like this one, the blond was only luxuriantly thick. Framed in those corn-silk ringlets, with clusters of pink rosebuds and sprays of forget-me-nots, Alix's face was a delicate oval, while the sharpness of Kyra's cheekbones and jaw turned her face nearly square; also, Alix's voice was a low, pleasing alto, well above the drawling huskiness of the other's tones.

Alix was laughing. “It might have been better if I had. You know, I'm only an inch shorter than Master Spenson. Tellie—you remember Tellie Wishrom? Neb Wishrom's daughter next door?—says her father's been negotiating to have her marry Mole Prouvet, and Mole's inches shorter than she is, though I think he's perfectly sweet in spite of having his nose buried in a book all the time. It's so wonderful to see you! I didn't think you'd come!”

“Quite obviously neither did Briory.”

“Poor Briory! The house has been in chaos—they have to put up the banners, and the big garlands for the banisters and the pillars on the porch tonight, as soon as Master Spenson and the other guests leave. Master Spenson and the Bishop and Lord Earthwygg are all coming for dinner, you know.”

“Well,” Kyra purred ruefully, “Father will be thrilled to see me. Hence the gown…” Her gesture took in her sister's embroidered petticoat with its cream-colored lace and bunches of silk flowers, while her somewhat harsh features melted into a smile. “In which you look beautiful, by the way.”

“Oh…” Alix blushed a little and shook her head.

“It's just the dress. This shade of green was always my color.”

“Dress forsooth. You were always twenty times prettier than I, though I suppose the same statement could as accurately be made about Mother's lapdogs.”

It had taken Kyra some years to become reconciled to that fact.

Alix's eyes twinkled. “Now, you shouldn't make comparisons like that! Those lapdogs are specially bred to be beautiful. But yes, Papa's gone into one of his fusses to get everything ready. I think if the Emperor's Regent showed up for dinner, Papa would fly into a frenzy about having to lay an extra plate. Ever since the wedding date was moved up—”

“Moved up?” In the soft lamplight Kyra felt herself blanch. “Moved up to when?”

Alix blinked at her with those soft brown eyes. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Kyra was still getting her breath back against the cold shock those words had brought her when the door of the book room opened again and Briory said colorlessly, “Master Peldyrin.”

Alix swung around, smiling with her usual sunny welcome—in this case, Kyra knew, assumed.

Kyra herself stepped briskly forward past her and held out her hand. “Father,” she said.

Gordam Peldyrin's sharp eyes, topaz like her own and like hers rather heavy-lidded, cut to Alix with a glint of suspicion and more than a little anger. “I thought I told you—”

“She didn't invite me, if that's what you think,” Kyra said as Alix's face turned pale under its smile, rice powder, and rouge. “She merely sent me an announcement, something you can scarcely fault her for, considering you had my tutor make me write out a list of all the members of my family to the fifth degree a hundred times in punishment for not sending Cousin Plennin in Mellidane a note when I was presented at the Guildmaster's Ball when I was fifteen. And a wedding ranks a good deal higher than a Guildmaster's Ball.”

There was brief silence in which the spicy fragrance of the carnations bound to the newel post near the still-open door seemed almost palpable in the waxy air.

“Cousin Plennin isn't a witch.”

“Of course he isn't,” Kyra agreed equably. “It would be difficult to state exactly what he is—the man has so little personality that he verges on the invisible. I hope he's outgrown his tendency to blend into the wallpaper or his valet will have to hunt him every morning. Has he, do you know, Alix?”

Alix had pressed her hands briefly to her mouth with shock and distress at her father's words but managed to stammer, “Yes, I… I think so…”

“If I were his valet, I'd make him wear a bell, myself,” Kyra mused, turning back to her speechless parent. “And a sister, even a disowned one ranks more highly than semivisible cousins from Mellidane. To be exact, Alix sent me an announcement of the date so that I might watch through a scrying-crystal, but since there are spells of scry-ward on so many churches, I thought I'd come. My decision was my own.”

“I won't have you making a scandal!”

Alix flinched visibly; Kyra's eyebrows rose. “I assure you I'll devote my best efforts to avoiding one.”

“If avoiding scandal was your aim, you'd have stayed where you were, away from this city!” her father snapped harshly. “You may attend the wedding if you feel it's your right, but I won't have you riding in the procession to the Church… And I won't have you dressing like some Old Believer rag peddler, either.” The jerk of his hand indicated the faded black robe that all wizards, from novice to Archmage, wore when abroad from the Citadel. “Blore Spenson has just been elected the President of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers now that his father is Lord Mayor of Angelshand. I've put a year and a half into negotiating this contract and more than that into getting people to forget the last scandal you caused…”

The muscle in Kyra's jaw jumped as if someone had laid a birch rod across the backs of her legs, but she said nothing.

“… so I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head while you're under my roof. Thank God it won't be for more than a day. And I won't have you upsetting your mother, either.”

“Well, that's something beyond my guaranteeing, since Mother is capable of upsetting herself over a collapsed soufflé at the best of times…”