Authors: Robin McKinley
“She further declared that she would give up her position as royal daughter, and that her father could choose his heir without her help, without her body as intermediary; and she and her fleethound set off to find—the story doesn’t say what she wanted to find, the meaning of life, one supposes, something of that sort.
“But one of the suitors followed her, and forced himself on her, thinking—who knows what a man like that thinks—thinking that perhaps what the girl needed was to understand that she could be taken by a strong man, or that rape would break her spirit, make her do what she was told.… She was beautiful, you see, so her attraction was not only through what her father would give her husband. And thinking also, perhaps, that her father would admire the strong commanding action of another strong man, like a general outflanking an opposing army by one daring stroke; or even that his daughter’s intransigence was a kind of challenge to her suitors.
“But it did not turn out quite as he had hoped, for the princess herself hated and reviled him for his action, and returned to her father’s court to denounce him. But in that then she was disappointed, and her father and his court’s reaction was not all that she wished—some versions of the story say that her attacker did in fact follow her father on the throne; even that her father told her that she deserved no better for rejecting her suitors and running away from her responsibilities.
“Whatever the confrontation was, it ended by her saying that she did not wish to live in this world any more, this world ruled by her father and the other kings who saw it as he did.
“And so she fled to the Moon, and lived there, alone with her dog, who soon gave birth to puppies. And because of what happened to her—and because of her delight in her bitch’s puppies—she watches out for young creatures, particularly those who are alone, who are hurt or betrayed, or who wish to make a choice for themselves instead of for those around them. And sometimes she flies down from the Moon with her dogs, and rescues a child or a nestling. Or a litter of puppies. The story goes that she has, over the years, become much like the Moon herself: either all-seeing or blind, sometimes radiant, sometimes invisible.”
He paused, and his brushing hand paused too. Aster stood motionless, hoping that he would forget how much brushing she’d had already, and begin again. But he laughed, picking her up gently from the grooming table and setting her on the ground. She looked up at him sadly and then wandered off. “There’s another bit to the story that occasionally is repeated: that our Moonwoman is still seeking a man to love her, that she would bear children as her dog, her best friend, did.”
He looked at Lissar and smiled. “I liked that very much when I was younger and tenderer: I thought perhaps she’d marry me—after all, we both love dogs, and the Moonwoman’s hounds are fleethounds, or something very much like them. Then I got a little older and recognized that I’m only the stodgy prince of a rather small, second-class country, that produces grain and goods enough to feed and clothe itself, and not much else, and that neither I nor my country is much to look at besides. We’re both rather dullish and brownish. I don’t suppose my choices are any more limited than the handsome prince of a bigger, more powerful country’s are; but I fancy that the princesses of first-rate countries are more interesting. Perhaps the duchesses and princesses of small second-class countries say the same about me.… I lost my hope for Moonwoman about the same time as I recognized the other. I was lucky, I suppose; if there had been any overlap it would have been a hard burden to bear.… I was tender for a rather longer time than most, I think.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after a pause, while he watched her brushing Ash. He had groomed three dogs, while she went on working at Ash. Ash had her own special comb for tangles and mats, specially procured by Ossin, and hung on the grooming-wall with all the soft brushes; its teeth looked quite fierce in such company. “I’m sorry to go on so. I’ve been thinking … about myself, I suppose, because there’s to be another ball, ten days from now, and I am to meet the princess Trivelda. Again. We met five years ago and didn’t like each other then; I don’t imagine anything will have changed.” He sighed. “Trivelda’s father runs what might charitably be called a rather large farm, south and west of us, and most of his revenues, I believe, go for yard goods for Trivelda’s dresses. She would not stoop to me if she had any better chances; she thinks hunting hounds are dirty and smell bad.”
“Probably many ladies from the grandest courts think the same,” said Lissar, with a strong inner conviction of the truth of her words.
“Probably … I find myself determined to think the worst of my … likely fate. It’s a weakness of character, I dare say. If I were a livelier specimen I would go out and find a Great Dragon to slay, and win a really desirable princess; I believe that’s the way to do it. But there haven’t been any Great Dragons since Maur, I think, and Aerin, who was certainly a highly desirable princess, didn’t need any help, and the truth is I’m very glad that all happened a long time ago and very far away. You’re smiling.”
“Must you marry a princess? Can’t you marry some great strapping country girl who rides mighty chargers bareback and can whistle so loudly she calls the whole country’s dogs at once?”
Ossin laughed. “I don’t know. If I met her perhaps I could rouse myself for argument. I think my mother would understand, and my father would listen to her. But I haven’t met her. And so they keep presenting me with princesses. Hopefully.”
“It is only one evening, this ball.”
Ossin looked at her. “You have attended few balls if you can describe it as ‘only one evening.’” He brightened. “I have a splendid idea—you come. You can come and see what you think of ‘only one evening.’”
Lissar’s heart skipped a beat or two, and there was a feeling in the pit of her stomach, a knot at the back of her skull; she was an herbalist’s apprentice, what did she know of balls? Where were these sight-fragments coming from, of chandeliers, spinning around her, no, she was spinning, through the figures of a dance, blue velvet, she remembered blue velvet, and the pressure of a man’s hand against her back, his hot grasp of her hand, her jewel-studded skirts sweeping the floor—jewel-studded?
“Are you all right?” Ossin’s hands were under her elbows; she started back. “Yes—yes, of course I am. It’s only—the fever hurt my memory, you see, and sometimes when memories come back they make me dizzy. I saw a princess once; she was wearing a dress with jewels sewn all over it, and she was dancing with a man she did not like.”
Ossin was looking at her; she could see him hesitating over what he thought of saying, and hoped he would decide to remain silent. She concentrated on the fine fawn hairs of Ash’s back. She put out a hand, fumbled with the comb, picked up the brushing mitt instead. Ossin moved away from her.
But that was not the end of the matter. The next day she was soaping and waxing leashes with the puppies spilled at her feet when Ossin appeared and said he had something he wished her opinion on. She assumed it had something to do with dogs, and went with him without question or much thought; Ash at her heels, the puppies shut up protestingly in their pen. Nob and Tolly, who had come with Ossin, were left with Hela.
Lissar was puzzled when he led her back into the main portion of the Gold House, the big central building from which nearly a city’s worth of smaller buildings grew, like mushrooms growing at the feet of a vast stony tree. It was still easy for Lissar to get lost in the maze of courtyards and alleys and dead-ends into wings and corners and abutments. She knew her way from the kennels to the open fields and back, and to the stables, where she visited Lilac—but that was nearly all. It was going to be embarrassing when Ossin dismissed her and she didn’t know where to go. But the house servants were almost without exception kind, she could ask one of them; perhaps she would even see one that she knew, Tappa or Smallfoot or Longsword the doorkeeper.
The hallways they passed through grew progressively grander. “The oldest part of the house was built by old King Raskel, who thought he was founding a dynasty that would rule the world. His idea of support for his plans was to build everything with ceilings high enough to contain weather beneath them. I used to fancy storm-clouds gathering up there and then with a clap of thunder the rain falls and drowns an especially deadly state banquet.” He flung open a set of doors. “Or a ball. Not a bad idea, if I knew how one made a thunderstorm. Raskel is the one who first called himself Goldhouse, seventeen generations ago.”
They were in the ballroom. Lissar didn’t need to be told. There were servants in livery hanging long ribbons and banners of crimson and gold and blue and green around the walls; the banners bore heraldic animals, dogs and horses, eagles and griffins. Goldhouse’s own badge, which hung above the rest, held a rayed sun with a stubby yellow castle, a horse, a deep-chested and narrow-bellied dog, and some queer mythological beast, set around it. Ossin saw her looking at it. “Fleethounds are in the blood, you might say. Or if there wasn’t already one there, I’d’ve put one in, although it would ruin the design. No, I would have taken the elrig out: ugly thing anyway. It’s supposed to be an emblem for virtue, virtue commonly being ugly, you know.”
Other servants were taking down plain drab curtains and hanging up other curtains to match the banners. “What do you think?” Ossin said, but it was a rhetorical question, and she only shook her head. He set out across the vast lake of floor, and she followed uneasily, dodging around servants with mops and buckets and polishing cloths; the smell of the floor polish made her eyes water. “They lay the stuff down now so the smell will be gone by the night,” he offered over his shoulder. “And the doors will be barred when they’re finished, so that people like me, who lack the proper attitude, can’t tramp through and ruin the gloss.” His footsteps echoed; the servants all wore soft shoes, and if they spoke, they spoke in whispers. Lissar’s bare feet made no noise, but she had the uncomfortable feeling of the floor polish adhering to her feet, so that she would slide, whenever she set her foot down, for some time after, leaving a sparkling trail like a snail’s.
They left by another, smaller door, went up two flights of stairs and down a hall of a more modest size, with a ceiling whose embossed flower pattern was near enough to see in detail. Then Ossin opened another door.
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN
THIS ROOM WAS SMALL AND, WHILE IT WAS OBVIOUSLY DUTIFULLY
aired at regular intervals, smelled unused. It was dim, the windows closed and curtains drawn over them; light came in only from the hall windows behind them. There were a few paintings hanging on the wall to their left as they walked in; they hung crowded together and uneven, as if they had been put up where there were already nails to hold them, without regard to how they looked.
The paintings were all portraits; the one which caught Lissar’s eye first was evidently very old. It was of a man, stiff in uniform, standing with his hand on the back of a chair that might have been a throne, staring irritably at the portrait painter who was wasting so much of his time. “That’s Raskel’s son—first in a long line of underachievers, of whom I am the latest.” As he spoke, Ossin was sorting through more—portraits, Lissar saw, which were smaller and less handsomely framed, lying on a table in the center of the room.
She looked up at the wall again; several of the other portraits were of young women, and looked newer, the paint uncracked, the finish still bright. “Ah,” said Ossin, and held something up. He went over to the window and threw back the curtains; afternoon sunshine flooded in. He turned to Lissar and offered her what he held. She walked over to him and stood facing the windows.
It was a portrait, indifferently executed, of a plump young woman in an unflattering dress of a peculiarly dismaying shade of puce. Perhaps the color was the painter’s fault, and not the young woman’s; but Lissar doubted that the flounces and ribbons were products of the painter’s imagination. “That’s Trivelda,” said Ossin with something that sounded like satisfaction. “Only one evening, you remember, eh? Looks just like her. What do you think?”
Lissar hesitated and then said, “She looks like someone who thinks hunting hounds are dirty and smell bad.”
“Exactly.” The prince sat down on the edge of the table, swinging one leg. She turned a little toward him. “What are all these—portraits?”
The prince grimaced. “Seven or eight or nine generations of courtly spouse-searches. Mostly it’s just us royals—or at least nobles—very occasionally a commoner either strikingly wealthy or strikingly beautiful creeps in. There are a few of the little hand-sized ones of the impoverished but hopeful.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Oh. Well. When you’re a king or a queen and you have a son or a daughter you start wanting to marry off, you hire a tame portrait painter to produce some copies of your kid’s likeness, preferably flattering, the number of copies depending on how eager or desperate you are, how much money you have to go with the package, and whether you can find a half-good painter with a lot of time to kill, and perhaps twelve or so children to support of his or her own. Then you fire off the copies to the likeliest courts with suitable—you hope suitable—unmarried offspring of the right gender.
“The one my father hired kept making my eyes bigger and my chin smaller—I’m sure from praiseworthy motives, but that kind of thing backfires, as soon as the poor girl—or her parents’ emissary—gets here and takes a good look at me.
“No one has come up with a good way of disposing of these things once their purpose is accomplished—or in most cases failed. It seems discourteous just to chuck them in the fire. So they collect up here.” He lifted the corners of one or two and let them fall again with small brittle thumps. “Occasionally one of the painters turns out to be someone famous, and occasionally we get some collector wanting to look through what’s in here, in hopes of finding a treasure. I don’t think that’s going to happen with Trivelda.”