Chapter 31 | The Last Royal Mistress

Duty

The next day, Temmin stayed home.

He sent a neatly written letter in his own hand to Allis and Issak the night before, begging for both him and Ellika to be excused for the next three days. He would return to duty the day before Nerr’s Day. As to why they wanted the time, he said only that their mother had been taken ill, and their family needed them.

The morning post contained their concerned reply; of course they could be excused. The twins would make an offering on the Queen’s behalf at both their own altars and across the Promenade at the Sister’s Temple, and if the Lovers’ Temple could be of any assistance, to call on them immediately.

Temmin couldn’t imagine how the Temple could be of assistance to his mother, but he remembered that Ellika had been spending quite a bit of time in the Healer’s House. Miss Hanston had thrown him out of Mama’s receiving room, Sedra was busy, and he felt helpless and frustrated. Elly probably did, too. Perhaps they could find solace in feeling helpless together, and perhaps they could figure out some way to help.

He found her outside sitting under an arbor of yellow roses, her trug basket half-filled with flowers on the bench next to her. She had taken off one of her dainty gardening gloves and was wiping her streaming eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Straighten up, Tem, brave face, he thought.

Temmin put the basket on the ground and took its place, nudging her in the side. “Don’t cry, Elly. It makes your eyes all red and puffy.”

Ellika gave a sobbing little laugh and blew her nose. “I know! And I forgot a hat. I’m going to ruin my complexion! I just came out to pick some flowers for her room...” She threatened to burst into tears again, but sniffed them back. “Crying is of no use. That’s what Seddy told me, but crying and picking flowers seem to be all I can do.”

“That’s more than I can do,” said Temmin. “Seddy’s taken over Mama’s duties. All I’ve managed to be is in the way. And besides, you’ve been serving in the Healer’s House, haven’t you? There has to be something you’ve picked up there that’d be of use.”

“If she had a broken limb, perhaps,” said Ellika. “I know how to do the exercises to keep the muscles from wasting without putting too much pressure on the bones. But other than that, all I do is hold the petitioners’ hands, maybe rub their backs. I’m more likely to read them their letters or write letters for them. Do you know how few people can read and write? I didn’t. All the servants we’ve ever had could.”

“Lots of the kitchen servants are illiterate,” said Temmin, “and a lot of the stable hands.”

“Some of us feel it is beneath us to spend our time in stables and kitchens, Temmy.”

“They were at Whithorse, too,” he continued, ignoring the dig. “In fact the old stable master at Whithorse wouldn’t hire anyone who could read and write. Said they didn’t know their station in life. You know, though, Elly,” he said, “Mama loves to read novels, just like you, and I don’t think she’s getting out of bed for a long while yet. When she’s feeling a little better, I’m sure she’d love it if you read to her. You were always best at reading aloud.”

“Really? D’you think so?” she said.

“I always stumble over everything, and Seddy never does the voices like you do.”

Ellika stood. “I suppose I’ll make these up into a bouquet for her and ask Cousin Donnis what Mama might like to hear. Thank you, Temmy, I don’t feel quite as useless.”

He sat on the bench long after she’d gone, staring stupidly into space. He needed to find something useful to do, but nothing presented itself. Perhaps he should have gone to the Temple after all. Maybe he’d box until he couldn’t stand up. He wanted to hit someone, or be hit. He got up and walked back into the house; he would have someone find Fen for him. Where was Fen apart from their morning training, anyway? His sparring partner couldn’t spend the rest of the day doing nothing, surely!

But this irritating question fled before the one that consumed him: What if Mama died? He was old enough that he didn’t need his mother, but he wondered if anyone were ever old enough to stop wanting his mother.

Meanwhile, Sedra was devoutly wanting her Mama.

She knew her mother had duties, but she had no idea they’d be quite this taxing. It felt strange to be in Mama’s day room without her. But someone needed to take care of these things, and it was most appropriate that she do it until her mother was well. Besides, it helped give her something other than her mother and Brinnid to think about. It was too close to the holiday, and one could hardly let standards slide; to let word get out that Mama was too sick even to supervise Nerr’s Day at the Keep would let slip too much about her condition. I am not going to let Ibbit find out how successful she’s been. I will not give her the satisfaction, Sedra thought.

She spent two of her precious early morning hours before breakfast with Mistress Mannell, supervising preparations for the celebration. Was the guest list in order? Did Palks have the menu? Flowers were ready, yes? Flowers were critical, the Keep must be draped in them. Yes, yes, yes, said Mannell, all of it had been arranged. She turned to the family. Did Temmin have an offering ready? Did Ellika have a present for Temmin? Was her own present in from the silversmith? Yes, yes, yes, said Camma, and Sedra checked them all off the list in her head before she consulted her actual list and cursed herself inwardly. Mama always covered Uncle Patrin’s grave at Whithorse in flowers on Nerr’s Day. She’d never get a message to the manor in time. But a quick consultation with Donnis revealed that Mama had arranged it long ago--she never forgot, how could I think she would--and the Whithorse staff were already making preparations before Mama’s letter had even arrived.

Then there was this afternoon. She would spend it with Donnis. If Donnis weren’t with her to receive the visits from heads of charities and wives of ambassadors Mama would have normally received, it would attract instant notice and speculation about the Queen’s condition. And she expected unscheduled visits from the Queen’s closest friends wanting to know how she did. What would she tell them? The truth was out of the question. She would think of something. Donnis would help her. She was clever with that sort of thing, and while Sedra was, too, she was far too distracted with Mama’s duties.

She welcomed the chores, in spite of everything. It kept her from thinking about Mama, and it was a short jump from that thought to how much more she hated Ibbit now, and she wanted to waste no thought on the woman. Sedra had never liked the Sister. She was insinuating, cruel to Temmy, and far too pushy with Mama. There were times Sedra felt that Ibbit ruled Whithorse, not Mama. But then Mama would find her feet again, and put one of them down firmly.

Ibbit had been allowed no say in how the children were educated. Ibbit hadn’t cared about that when it came to Temmin, but she had been furious that she wasn’t allowed to direct the girls’ learning, especially when it became clear that Sedra was most interested in Eddin, and Ellika was most interested in clothes and boys. Influence with the next royal generation lost, thought Sedra, though it was improbable that both girls would stay in Tremont. If the Sister were half as smart as she thought she was, she would have cultivated Temmin, who was the only one of them definitely staying put and would have more influence than the Queen ever dreamed of.

Sedra had always doubted Ibbit’s love for Mama, despite the love letters Ibbit had made sure she’d seen. Ibbit wanted to be Eldest Sister, and that was all. And poisoning Mama proved it. Mama loved her! How could anyone who really loved Mama try to kill her?

Papa told them at breakfast that he had both Teacher and the Brothers looking for Ibbit; the Brothers could keep a secret, and Teacher was made of secrets. Teacher had already reported back that wherever she was, Ibbit was staying away from reflections. But at some point she would slip. Teacher would find her and the King would kill her. Elly said she would spit on Ibbit’s head before it was hung over Marketgate with the heads of the three traitorous Sisters that already decorated it. Sedra wondered whether Papa would let her wield the axe; she wasn’t strong enough, but that would only mean more suffering for Ibbit. And there could not be suffering enough for that bitch, thought Sedra.

She missed Brinnid. Having him near, she could bear anything. If he were here, he’d find a way to make her laugh. He’d hold her close, kiss her tears away. She wondered where he was on his voyage back to Sairland, and if he missed her.

Brinnid watched his flagship from the windows of the Sairish consulate in Belleth Town. The Prince Creithig, the beautiful ship his father had built, was still his first choice whenever he sailed, but today he would be taking one of its tenders, the little clipper ship called the Star of the Sea; to take the Creithig would give away his game and signal his early return to the rebellious Lord Finthaven. It was all right; the Star was a fast, sweet-sailing ship, and “Lieutenant Murren” looked forward to voyaging in a way he rarely could now that he was king. The real Lieutenant Murren would have to keep up his charade across the ocean as “Brinnid” in the Creithig.

He’d found the Star woefully unprepared for a voyage. Her little crew was scattered, and the very young lieutenant who commanded her was horrified when his leadership came under Brinnid’s scrutiny. He was a good man, thought Brinnid, and would be a good commander once he learned the knack of controlling his men in port. Brinnid took command of the Star, called for his particular men among the Creithigs to replace the probably drunken and whore-besotted Stars, and set the Prince Creithig’s purser to outfitting the little tender, while the very young lieutenant found himself a midshipman again. He would have to take his consolation in working directly with his king aboard the Star.

Today Brinnid would sail with the tide. He had finished his last business at the consulate, and, though absent Stewn’s careful watch, his trunks were aboard. He now waited impatiently in the downstairs receiving room for the gig to take him from the consulate to the docks.

Brinnid reached into his vest pocket for his watch, but he checked himself, moved to a pocket closer to his heart, and drew out a small case instead. He tripped its latch, and gazed at the portrait of Sedra inside. Once he put down the rebellion, he told the little painting, he would order a new royal yacht, and he’d name it the Queen Sedra. That was a grand gesture Sedra the woman would appreciate.

He closed the case. In its silver reflection, he saw a movement behind him and turned, expecting the consul.

The man by the doors was not the consul. In fact, judging by his dress, he was not anyone of any note at all. “Shall I call you Your Majesty, or ‘Lieutenant Murren’?” said the man in Traveler’s clothes.

“You have the advantage of me,” said Brinnid cautiously.

“You have no idea how true that is,” said the man, the corners of his mouth curving into his rusty beard.

Brinnid put the portrait case back in his waistcoat and put one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am Lieutenant Murren,” said Brinnid. “I would ask who you are, but I’m much more curious as to what you want and how you got here.”

“Lieutenant Murren it is,” grinned the man. “I’ll just leave a message for His Majesty with you, then, shall I? Please tell him to give my regards to the little mole on the inside of Princess Sedra’s thigh. Quite high up, if memory serves.”

Brinnid pulled his sword. “I must insist that you tell me who you are, and why you would insult my King’s betrothed.”

“Who I am? Just someone who can map every little mark on Her Highness’s body. That’s all. Oh, do put that thing away!” said the man, waving at the sword. “If I hurt you, my mother will kill me!”

“You hurt me? I am a very competent swordsman, I assure you, and you haven’t even a dagger,” said Brinnid.

“I assure you, it doesn’t matter,” said the man. Brinnid touched the point of his sword to the man’s chest. “Don’t, Brinnid, you won’t like the outcome,” said the man. The sword didn’t move. “Very well,” the man said.

He ran his thumb down the blade’s spine. Brinnid watched in astonishment as the sword buckled beneath the man’s touch, smoke hissing as the metal curled. He dropped the hot, useless sword and stepped back. “Who are you?” he said.

The man smiled. “Ask Sedra.” He turned toward a mirror hanging near the doors. “Don’t worry about the sword. I’ve told it to mend itself as soon as I’m gone. I’ve even sharpened it for you. That’s just how I am. Always helping kings along, and always sharpening blades. Good voyage, Brinnid, and good luck with the rebellion!” The man stepped through the mirror and was gone.

Just as Teacher can, thought Brinnid. Just as I can in Sairland. Who was he? How was it possible anyone held any magic in Tremont apart from Teacher? Teacher held it all. He’d seen it himself in Macca’s story.

Anger burned away Brinnid’s shock. The man knew Sedra’s body. He’d made that clear. She had been so concerned about passing her Temple examination--was it because she couldn’t? He stared at the mirror; the man had left not a ripple in it.

His gaze moved to the sword on the floor. It had burned a mark into the carpet, but the blade itself was whole once again. The man was true to his word.

Brinnid picked it up. It was cool to the touch, and when he tested its edge, he cut his thumb, the thin, bloodless kind of cut he knew would bother him for days; Brinnid cursed and shook his hand. He sheathed the sword, then pulled out the portrait case. He stared at it, but didn’t open it.

A knock came at the door; the gig was here, and would “Lieutenant Murren” wish to be taken to the Star of the Sea now? The tide would turn soon.

Brinnid returned the case to his waistcoat, but not to the pocket closest to his heart.