After the Ball, Before the Spectacle

Farrday, the 1st day of Spring's End

Camma set a tray down quietly next to her mistress's bed. She drew back the heavy window curtains, leaving the sheers in place to filter the late morning light, and cautiously peeked into the bedcurtains. "I've brought you some tea and some orange juice, miss," she whispered hesitantly.

"It's all right, Camma, I'm awake and not hung over in the least, just worn out," answered the princess, sitting up and stretching as Camma fastened the bedcurtains back. She accepted the hot teacup and took a deep draught, nearly emptying it despite its temperature. She flexed her feet experimentally. They were still sore; out with those dancing slippers, she thought. "Venna help me, what a night. I'm still tired. How does Elly do it?"

"You can ask her yourself, miss. She's in your study waiting to have breakfast with you." At Sedra's glare, Camma gave her mistress an apologetic shrug. "I tried, miss. She was more insistent than usual. Extremely so."

"Oh, in that case, I forgive you completely," sighed Sedra, pulling on an old but comfortable blue and gray striped wrap over her nightdress and sliding her feet into her favorite soft carpet slippers. "Force of nature, act of Pagg and all that, I know my sister." She walked into the study with the orange juice in one hand and her empty tea cup in the other. There at her table sat Ellika studying the color fashion plates of the latest Chodry's Ladies Book, her long blond hair still in its nighttime braid.

"Drink that juice, Sedra, you look horrid!" said Ellika, whose own brown eyes were as bright and shiny as ever. "Does sparkling wine always have this effect on you?"

"No, dancing half the night has this effect on me. Horrid? That's a fine way to greet one's sister at her own breakfast table." She leaned down and kissed Ellika on the cheek.

"Pfft," replied Ellika, "you know what I mean. You look half-dead."

"I feel half dead, thank you. Why would Papa not retire last night!"

"I'm sure I don't know, but he's hardly who I came to talk about."

"Oh, no, not this. Please, I haven't even eaten or read the papers yet."

"Sedra!" yipped Ellika, sweeping the stack of newspapers from her sister's place onto her own lap and thence to the floor. "How can you not be excited about Brinnid!"

Sedra sighed and rested her forehead on one hand. "Because I have a lifetime ahead of me to contemplate the man?"

"And contemplating him looks to be an extremely pleasant task. Why not start now!" Ellika pulled her chair closer to the table and plucked a piece of toast from the rack. "For instance," she said, waving the toast triangle like a little flag, "what do we know about him?"

"That he fancies himself sly and devious," said Sedra. "He sent me a secret present a week ago."

Ellika squeaked and dropped the toast. "Neya's little feet! What did he send you!"

"Nothing you'd be interested in, anyway. Falconry gear."

"Falconry gear?"

"Gloves, bells and a little topknot of feathers to put on a hunting falcon."

Ellika made a disappointed face, took a bite of her toast and swallowed. "What would a falcon want with gloves?"

"No, you ninny, you wear the gloves and the falcon perches on your wrist, though I think the ones he sent were more decorative than functional from what I've been able to find out. No one knows much about falconry in Tremont." Sedra ducked under the table to fetch her newspapers.

Ellika put her slippered foot on top of the pile. "Why didn't you tell me!"

"It wasn't appropriate! I told Mama!" came Sedra's muffled voice from under the table, full of annoyance. "Let me have my newspapers!"

"And you're sure they were from Brinnid?" Ellika said, lifting her foot.

"Yes! Ow!" Sedra bumped her head, but she emerged from under the damask cloth with her armful of news, triumphant. "He enclosed a letter."

"What did it say!"

"That he'd be giving me a falcon when we get to Sairland."

"For what?"

Sedra sat back in her chair. "Have you even been listening?"

"Of course I have!" said Ellika in irritation. "You haven't said anything! What kind of music does he like! What's his favorite sweet! Does he like dancing!"

Sedra looked at her sister in mild astonishment. "Temmin tells me you nearly flew at Papa and raked his eyes out you were so angry about marrying me off to a stranger."

"He's not a stranger now," Ellika said decisively. "I've seen him. And I like him. He's handsome and romantic and dashing."

"You haven't said two words to him!"

"I don't need to." Ellika held her head up haughtily. "I have the knack, you know." In spite of what that Issak thinks, she added to herself.

The king under discussion had been awake already for several hours at the Sairish embassy. The political aspects of the trip had been worked out far in advance, before he'd even set foot on Tremontine soil. Brinnid was here solely to collect his bride, and if his impressions from last night were accurate, she was well worth the trip.

At first glance he'd preferred the younger of the two sisters; Princess Ellika was the beauty, fast on her feet and so merry she made even the most tired and formal dance look new and exciting. By contrast, her sister the Princess Royal was serious and quiet, preferring seemingly intense conversations with friends to dancing. But when she'd finally taken the floor, first with her brother the Heir and then with her father, Princess Sedra was riveting, at least to him.

Brinnid judged people mostly on what their bodies told him, not what their mouths told him. Sedra, all unknown, had told him of her ruthlessly controlled passion and ambition. It was in her carriage, the way she held her head, the flash of her eyes when a partner went too far in flattery or held her a bit too closely. Anyone else watching her would have seen a gracious and regal lady. He had seen the queen she longed to be, and more; he saw the woman she would be in his bed. It sent an instant shock down his spine, and he feared he was already lost.

Dancing with her had confirmed everything Brinnid had already seen along with what he'd heard; the Princess Royal was no fool. They both knew she'd seen right through him the moment he'd opened his mouth. She'd played along until he'd told her how beautiful she was. He knew as a princess she was used to flattery, but he had been quite sincere and she had sensed it. The princess needs to be told more often how beautiful she is by a man who believes it, he thought, if that's the reaction she has to it. And he thought he might just be that man.

Now, Brinnid looked down on the busy main square of the capital from a bedroom window in the embassy. A splendid beginning to a courtship, he mused, and turned to his valet Stewn, who had been busy all the morning. "Are we packed?"

"Yes, your majesty, though I must say once again what an odd thing it is for us to come and go and come again."

"The Earl of Maccal came yesterday, and leaves today. Brinnid King is returning tomorrow, Stewn. Let's be on our way."

Back at the Keep, Temmin was watching as his own valet fussed with packing his things for the Spectacle and the morning after. "Do stop poking at things! You're making me more nervous than I already am!"

"I'm sorry, your highness," Jenks answered. "I just don't want to forget anything, and I want to make sure you're perfectly turned out."

"You've packed half my closet, I'm sure somewhere in there I'll find something to wear."

"If only they'd let me come with you, at least to help you get ready before the Spectacle," muttered Jenks.

"Well, they won't. Show me again what you want me to wear, and I'll make sure Senik wrestles me into it."

Jenks produced a piece of paper from his pocket. "I've written it down. Your best formal suit--I didn't want to gamble on a new one--a new starched linen shirt, a new high collar, a new lace stock. A white waistcoat with a jacquard pattern of your coat of arms. Your ruby studs, watch fob and cufflinks. Your best formal shoes. New silk small clothes, for tonight and tomorrow. For tomorrow morning I've packed your best day suit, another new shirt and collar, a brocade waistcoat of Tremontine red and bronze, your amber studs, fob and cufflinks, a Tremontine red cravat, and your second best shoes. They, uh, they told me they'd take care of your nightclothes." Jenks regarded him sternly. "I expect you to give this Senik person this," he said, waving the paper, "first thing you arrive at the Temple."

"Yes, yes, I will," said Temmin distractedly, playing with his watch. Three more hours before he could leave!

The valet sighed and shook his head. "To be on the safe side, I've already sent it to him by messenger. Now," Jenks said, changing tacks, "as to the matter of presents for the Holy Ones--"

"Presents?! I was supposed to get them presents?!" said Temmin, jerking his head up in panic. "Why doesn't anyone tell me these things! I have nothing!"

"That's why you have staff, your highness. Winmer has selected three different sets of jewels. You may choose from among them."

Temmin frowned. "That seems so impersonal."

Jenks shrugged. "It is impersonal, sir. It's Temple tribute. The Holy Ones won't be allowed to keep it when their service is over."

"Can't I give them something they can keep?"

"Another time. Now, sir. Let's have a look at the jewels."

Temmin sighed and ran his hand through his hair. At least it was something to fill the time.

In the king's study, the coming evening was also under discussion. "And what jewels did you choose for my son's present?" said Harsin idly to his secretary.

Winmer looked up from the appointment book. "A set of diamonds, a set of pearls, and a set of sapphires, all with royal rubies. Diadems, brooches, ropes, studs, rings. Whatever he chooses, the Temple will be pleased, sir."

"I have another task for you, Winmer." The small man waited expectantly, his lively face enquiring. "There is a housemaid here. Judging by her age and her uniform, she's a downstairs maid. Very young, very pretty, curly hair. Hazel eyes, I think--I didn't get a close enough look to tell. I think her name is Arta. Find out what you can about her from Affton, please."

"Certainly, sir. Should, ah--should I know exactly how to couch my line of questioning?"

"Be discreet."

"Ah," said Winmer with a little smile. "Discreet."