Court Duel (2 page)

"I'm sorry," I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise's
letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. "You know
how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind."

"I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it
this once. You need to make your peace," Oria said quietly.
"You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a
by-your-leave, and I think it's gnawing at you. Because you
keep watching that road."

I felt my temper flare, but I didn't say anything because I
knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn't angry with
her.

I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to
smile. "Perhaps you may be right, and I'll write to Bran by and
by. But here, listen to this!" And I picked up the book I'd
been reading before the letter came. "This is one of the ones I
got just before the snows closed the roads: 'And in several
places throughout the world there are caves with ancient
paintings and lyon Daiyin glyphs.'" I looked up from the book.
"Doesn't that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest
horse and ride and ride until you find these places?"

Oria shuddered. "Not me. I like it fine right here at
home."

"Use your imagination!" I read on. "'Some of the caves
depict constellations never seen in our skies—'" I
stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic
pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at
the guardhouse just down the road. "Someone's coming!" I
exclaimed.

Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. "And
the Hill Folk saw them." She pointed at the Fire Sticks.

"'Them?' " I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and
nodded. "Means a crowd, true enough."

Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. "Countess, I
believe we have company on the road."

She looked in, and I said, "I hadn't expected anyone." Then
my heart thumped, and I added, "It could be the fine weather
has melted the snows down-mountain—d'you think it might
be Branaric at last? I don't see how it could be anyone
else!"

"Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?" Oria asked.

"Maybe he's brought lots of servants?" I suggested
doubtfully. "Perhaps his half year at Court has given him
elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to.
Or he's hired artisans from the capital to help forward our
work on the castle. I hope it's artisans," I added.

"Either way, we'll be wanted to find space for these
newcomers," Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire
Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. "You ought to
put on one of those gowns of your mother's that we remade, my
lady."

"For my brother?" I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about
me as we slipped out of my room. "I don't need to impress him,
even if he has gotten used to Court ways!"

Julen whisked herself out.

Oria paused in the doorway. "What about your letter?"

"I guess I will have to ask Bran," I said, feeling that
neck-tightening sense of foreboding again. "But later. When I
find the right time."

She ducked her head in a nod, then disappeared.

I pulled the letter from my pocket, crammed it into a carved
box near my bed, and ran out of the room.

The flags were chilly on my feet, but I decided against
going back in for shoes. If it really was Bran, I wanted to be
in the courtyard to see his face when he discovered the
improvements to the castle.

The prospect of Bran's arrival, which we had all anticipated
so long, made me slow my steps just a little, to look at the
familiar work as if it were new: windows, modernized
fireplaces, and best of all, the furnishings. My prizes were
the antique plainwood tables from overseas, some with inlaid
patterns, some with scrollwork and thin lines of gilding; all
of it—to my eyes, anyway—beautiful. Half the rooms
had new rugs from faraway Letarj, where the weavers know how to
fashion with clear colors the shapes of birds and flowers, and
to make the rugs marvelously soft to the feet.

As I trod down the main stairway, I looked with pleasure at
the smooth tiles that had replaced the worn, uneven stones.
They made the area look lighter and larger, though I hadn't
changed anything in the walls. The round window at the front of
the hall had stained glass in it now, a wonderful pattern that
scattered colored light across the big stairway when the sun
was just right.

Oria reappeared as I crossed the hall to the front door.

"I wish the tapestries were done," I said, giving one last
glance around. "Those bare walls."

Oria nodded. "True, but who will notice, with the new tiles,
and these pretty trees?"

I thanked her, feeling a little guilty. I had stolen the
idea of the potted trees from the Renselaeus palace—where
I had been taken briefly during the latter part of the
war—but how would they ever know? I comforted myself with
this thought and turned my attention to the others, who were
all gathering to welcome Bran.

Oria, Julen, and I had designed a handsome new livery, and
both women wore their new gowns. Little Calaub was proud of his
new-sewn stablehand livery, which marked him out to his friends
in the village for his exalted future as the Astiar Master of
Horse.

Village?
Town,
I thought, distracted, as the sound
of pounding horse hooves preceded Bran's arrival. Many of the
artisans I'd hired had elected to remain, for everyone in the
village had decided to improve their homes. We suddenly had
lots of business for any who wanted it, and money—at
last—to pay for it all.

The rattle up the new-paved road—our first project
during summer—grew louder, and to our surprise, not one
but four coaches arrived, the first one a grand affair with our
device boldly painted on its side. Outriders clattered in,
their magnificent horses kicking up the powdery snow, and for a
time all was chaos as the stablehands ran to see to the animals
and lead them to our new barn.

"Four coaches?" Julen said to me, frowning. "We've room for
the one. Two, if they shift things around and squeeze up
tightly."

"The last two will have to go to the old garrison barn," I
said. "Leastwise it has a new roof."

Out of the first carriage stepped Bran, his hair loose and
shining under a rakish plumed hat. He was dressed in a
magnificent tunic and glossy high blackweave riding boots, with
a lined cloak slung over one shoulder. He grinned at
me—then he turned and, with a gesture of practiced grace
that made me blink, handed out a lady.

A lady?
I gawked in dismay at the impressive hat
and muffling cloak that spanned a broad skirt, and looked down
at myself, in an old skirt Oria had discarded, a worn tunic
that I hadn't bothered to change after my sword lesson that
morning, and my bare feet. Then I noticed that Julen and Oria
had vanished. I stood there all alone.

In fine style Bran escorted the mysterious lady to the new
slate steps leading to the big double doors where I stood, but
then he dropped her arm and bounded up, grabbing me in a big
hug and swinging me around. "Sister!" He gave me a resounding
kiss and set me down. "Place looks wonderful!"

"You
could
have let me know you were bringing a
guest," I whispered.

"And spoil a good surprise?" he asked, indicating the lady,
who was still standing on the first step. "We have plenty of
room, and as you'd told me in your letter the place isn't such
a rattrap anymore, I thought why not make the trip fun and
bring 'em?"

"'Them?'" I repeated faintly, but by then I already had my
answer, for the outriders had resolved into a lot of liveried
servants who were busy unloading coaches and helping
stablehands. Through the midst of them strolled a tall, elegant
man in a heel-length black cloak. I looked at the familiar gray
eyes, the long yellow hair—it was the Marquis of
Shevraeth.

TWO

"YES," BRAN SAID CARELESSLY, INDICATING HIS TWO guests.
"Nimiar—and Danric there, whom you already know." He
frowned. "Life, sister, why are there trees in here? Aren't
there enough of 'em outside?"

I gritted my teeth on a really nasty retort, my face burning
with embarrassment.

The lady spoke for the first time. "But Branaric, you liked
them well enough at my home, and I think it a very pretty new
fashion indeed." She turned to me, and I got a swift impression
of wide-set brown eyes, a dimpled smile, and a profusion of
brown curly hair beneath the elaborate hat. "I am Nimiar
Argaliar," she said, holding out a daintily gloved hand.

Trying desperately to force my face into a semblance of
friendly welcome, I stuck my own hand out, rather stiffly. She
grasped it in a warm grip for a moment as I said, "Welcome. I
hope... you'll enjoy it here."

"Do you have a welcome for me?" Shevraeth said with a faint
smile as he came leisurely up the steps and inside.

"Certainly," I said in a voice so determinedly polite it
sounded false even to my own ears. "Come into the
parlor—
all
of you— and I'll see to
refreshment. It must have been a long trip."

"Slow," Bran said, looking around. "Roads are still bad
down-mountain, but not up here anymore. You have been busy,
haven't you, Mel? All I remember in this hallway is the mildew
and the broken stone floor. And the parlor! What was the cost
of this mosaic ceiling? Not that it matters, but it's as fine
as anything in Athanarel."

I'd been proud of the parlor, over which I had spent a great
deal of time. The ceiling had inlaid tiles in the same
summer-sky blue that comprised the main color of the rugs and
cushions and the tapestry on the wall opposite the newly
glassed windows. Now I sneaked a look at the Marquis, dreading
an expression of amusement or disdain. But his attention seemed
to be reserved for the lady as he led her to the scattering of
cushions before the fireplace, where she knelt down with a
graceful sweeping of her skirts. Bran went over and opened the
fire vents.

"If I'd known of your arrival, it would have been warm in
here."

Bran looked over his shoulder in surprise. "Well, where
d'you spend your days? Not still in the kitchens?"

"In the kitchens and the library and wherever else I'm
needed," I said; and though I tried to sound cheery, it came
out sounding resentful. "I'll be back after I see about food
and drink."

Feeling very much like I was making a cowardly retreat, I
ran down the long halls to the kitchen, cursing my bad luck as
I went. There I found Julen, Oria, the new cook, and his
assistant all standing in a knot talking at once. As soon as I
appeared, the conversation stopped.

Julen and Oria turned to face me—Oria on the verge of
laughter.

"The lady can have the new rose room, and the lord the
corner suite next to your brother. But they've got an army of
servants with them, Countess," Julen said heavily. Whenever she
called me Countess, it was a sure sign she was deeply disturbed
over something. "Where'll we house
them?
There's no
space in our wing, not till we finish the walls."

"And who's to wait on whom?" Oria asked as she carefully
brought my mother's good silver trays out from the wall-shelves
behind the new-woven coverings. "Glad we've kept these
polished," she added.

"I'd say find out how many of those fancy palace servants
are kitchen trained, and draft 'em. And then see if some of the
people from that new inn will come up, for extra wages.
Bran
can unpocket the extra pay," I said darkly, "if
he's going to make a habit of disappearing for half a year and
reappearing with armies of retainers. As for housing, well, the
garrison does have a new roof, so they can all sleep there.
We've got those new Fire Sticks to warm 'em up with."

"What about meals for your guests?" Oria said, her eyes
wide. I'd told Oria last summer that she could become steward
of the house. While I'd been ordering books on trade, and world
history, and governments, she had been doing research on how
the great houses were currently run; and it was she who had
hired Demnan, the new cook. We'd eaten well over the winter,
thanks to his genius. I looked at Oria. "This is it. No longer
just us, no longer practice, it's time to dig out all your
plans for running a fine house for a noble family. Bran and his
two Court guests will need something now after their long
journey, and I have no idea what's proper to offer Court
people."

"Well, I do," Oria said, whirling around, hands on hips, her
face flushed with pleasure. "We'll make you proud, I
promise."

I sighed. "Then ... I guess I'd better go back." As I ran to
the parlor, pausing only to ditch my blanket in an empty room,
I steeled myself to be polite and pleasant no matter how much
my exasperating brother inadvertently provoked me—but
when I pushed aside the tapestry at the door, they weren't
there. And why should they be? This was Branaric's home, too. A
low murmur of voices, and a light, musical, feminine laugh drew
me to the library.
At least this room is nothing to be
ashamed of,
I thought, trying to steady my racing heart. I
walked in, reassuring myself with the sight of the new
furnishings and, on the wall, my framed map of the world, the
unknown scribe's exquisitely exact use of color to represent
mountains, plains, forests, lakes, and cities making it a work
of art.

And on the shelves, the beginnings of a library any family
might be proud of. Just last winter the room had been bare, the
shelves empty. Ten years it had been so, ever since the night
my father found out my mother had been killed; and in a
terrible rage, he'd stalked in and burned every book there,
from ancient to new. I now had nearly fifty books, all
handsomely bound.

My head was high as I crossed the room to the groupings of
recliner cushions, each with its lamp, that I'd had arranged
about the fireplace. Of course this room was warm, for it had a
Fire Stick, since I was so often in it.