So it was that we spent the balance of the summer of my fourteenth year touring my holdings in Terre d'Ange, rather than spending it as I would have chosen, hunting and fishing and hawking in Montrève. It was not ill done, I suppose. To my profound relief, while Barquiel L'Envers delegated a squadron to escort us, he didn't deign to accompany them. They were good men—Montrève's retainers ensured it, for Ti-Philippe maintained ties to the Royal Army—and seemed to welcome the light duty.
There were three estates, all told; two in L'Agnace, and one in Namarre. We visited HeuzÇ in L'Agnace first, where I admired the grain-fields and prize-winning cheeses, and from thence rode to Namarre.
Namarre was Naamah's territory. There was a shrine there, where the River Naamah rises from beneath the ground. Phèdre visited it upon our travels. It was sacred to the Servants of Naamah, and Joscelin and I were not allowed to enter.
She went.
What transpired there, I do not know; only that there was a brightness about her when she came back. Hugues sighed a great deal afterward, and wrote more of the abysmal poetry he dedicates to Phèdre, which we had ample time to hear him recite on the road.
We made our visit to the duchy of Barthelme, the largest of my holdings, where I discovered I was responsible for producing, among other things, a very fine red wine. All of the estates, truth be told, ran themselves. They had done so for many years, for my father had dwelled in La Serenissima until he died. The Queen had appointed wise seneschals.
They made their accounts to her factors, and those monies were held in trust. It was all very exacting. I shook the hands of the seneschals and they bowed, putting a face to the name, taking heed of the squadron of the Royal Army that stood behind me. At each estate, we spent a day or two touring the holdings and an evening exchanging social courtesies, and then rode onward.
The third estate we visited was different.
Lombelon, it was called. It was in L'Agnace, no more than a half-day's ride from the City of Elua, which was why we saved it for last. There was little more to it than a manor house and a handful of outlying orchards, but it bore a strange history. It had once belonged to my mother, who had inherited it upon the death of her first husband as part of his holdings. Some years later, she deeded it in turn to Isidore d'Aiglemort, the Camaeline traitor, doubtless as a gift to seal their alliance.
When d'Aiglemort betrayed the realm, his holdings were declared the property of the Crown. Ysandre bestowed Aiglemort itself on the Unforgiven, those Camaeline warriors who have dedicated themselves in perpetual penitence to defending the border of Terre d'Ange against the Skaldi. But the tiny holding of Lombelon she deeded to my father, Benedicte, as a gift upon his second marriage. Thus it came to me.
It was a pleasant place, dedicated to growing pears. We toured the pressing-yard, where they made perry cider, and then the distillery shed. That was where I first saw Maslin, though I did not know his name.
He was tending to the gleaming copper alembic that distilled Lombelon's perry cider into brandy. It was the rapt concentration with which he did it that I noticed; that, and the way a shaft of sunlight from the doorway caught his hair, a blond so pale it was silvery. But he averted his head and slipped away when we entered, and I thought nothing of it.
All of us endured a lengthy discourse on harvesting, pressing, and distillation techniques, for which we were rewarded with a sample of Lombelon's pear brandy. It was heady stuff. I sipped mine with care, while L'Envers' soldiers quaffed theirs with a good will. Afterward, the seneschal took us on a stroll through the closest orchard, boasting of the healthy crop. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of pears, alive with the drone of bees.
That was the second time I saw Maslin.
He was working in the orchard, wielding a wicked-looking pruning hook on a long shaft. It was one of the older trees, one the seneschal informed us they were trying to prompt to bear further fruit in the years to come. The silver-haired youth circled it, shirtless and barefoot, working the pruning hook with savage grace. Although the rapt look was gone from his face, as in the distillery shed, his focus was absolute. He assailed the highest branches, the muscles in his arms bunching and gliding with the effort. With each stroke, a flurry of twigs and green leaves descended, and his strokes were so fast and unerring, it was as though the tree shook itself, shedding a hail of detritus.
I envied him.
I envied his assurance of his place in the world, his height and broad-shouldered strength. I envied the simplicity of the task, and his utter concentration on it. I gauged him to be some two years older than me, and I envied that, too. I found myself lagging as the seneschal moved on without me, more than happy to have Phèdre's ear to bend. Our escort was scattered, Montrève's retainers and soldiers of the Royal Army wandering amid the orchard.
Within a few moments, the silver-haired youth sensed my presence. He lowered the pruning hook and fixed me with a dark-eyed stare. "What do you want?"
"Nothing." The surliness of his tone took me by surprise, but human nature is a peculiar thing. Because I had admired him, I wanted him to like me. I came forward, extending my hand. "I'm Imriel."
He didn't move. "I know who you are… Prince."
I felt a touch of unease, like a cold finger on my spine. "Then you have the advantage of me," I replied in a calm tone. "Will you give me your name and render us at quits?"
"Maslin." He spat the name. "Does it mean anything to you?"
"No." I shook my head, genuinely perplexed. "Should it?"
"It should." He smiled grimly and took a step forward. The pruning hook in his right hand cast a long shadow on the grass. "I had it from my father. It was his father's name."
In my mind, the pieces fell into place like a puzzle—the strange history of Lombelon, the genealogies of the peerage, the youth's pale hair. I had heard the stories of Isidore d'Aiglemort, the traitor-hero. Kilberhaar, the Skaldi called him; Silver-hair. Though my mother led him into treachery, he redeemed himself at the very end. It was he who slew Waldemar Selig on the battlefield of Troyes-le-Mont, though he got his death-wound doing it.
"You're Duc Isidore's son," I said.
"His bastard"
"There is no shame—" I began, bewildered.
"He would have acknowledged me!" Maslin shouted, cutting me off. The pruning hook lowered like a spear, aimed at my heart. "This was to have been mine, Lombelon, mine! But there was no time!"
"I'm sorry, Maslin." I took a step backward. "But it's nothing to do with me."
"Puling princeling." He spat on the ground. "My father died a hero. By what right do you, the son of a bitch-whore-traitor, lay claim to Lombelon?"
"By right of the Queen's will," I said coldly. I had no intention of defending my mother, but Maslin had succeeded in making me angry. My hand strayed to the hilt of my dagger. The pruning hook made a vicious weapon, but I reckoned I could throw faster than he could lunge. "Will you challenge it?"
There was shouting, somewhere, and the muffled sounds of footsteps racing through the long grass toward us. We both ignored it, staring at one another. Maslin was breathing hard, his bare chest heaving. He wiped the back of his free hand over his brow, leaving a dark smudge.
"Will you?" I repeated.
"No." Gritting his teeth, he put up his impromptu weapon. "Not here, princeling, not now. But one day, when we are men, there will be a reckoning. I mean to make something of myself. And you will rue the day I do."
I nodded. "So be it, if it must. But I do not seek your enmity."
"No?" His mouth twisted. "Nonetheless, it is yours."
My escort arrived in belated, thunderous array, swords drawn, clad in the livery of Courcel and Montrève. The seneschal of Lombelon lumbered in their wake, puffing. There was nothing to be seen by then. Only two youths, conversing beneath a pear tree. I made light of the exchange, and we moved onward.
Phèdre knew, of course.
There was little that escaped her attention. Still, she was angry at herself for being careless, and I found myself reluctant to discuss it. I begged her not to speak to the Royal Army Captain of it, reckoning it not worth his trouble. In that, she acceded, saying only a quiet word to Joscelin and Ti-Philippe. We did not speak of it that day, not until the next day, as we rode toward the City and she drew the details of the encounter from me.
"Isidore's son," she murmured. "I wonder who his mother is."
"I don't know." I shook my head. "It didn't seem prudent to ask."
"D'Aiglemort was reckoned a hero until he turned," Ti-Philippe commented. "There's any number of L'Agnacite lasses might have lit candles to Eisheth on his behalf."
Gilot laughed. "You ought to know, chevalier!"
At that, Phèdre smiled. There are a good many children in the area surrounding Montrève who bear a certain resemblance to the last of Phèdre's Boys, although not so many in the years since Ti-Philippe took up with Hugues. "Well, Isidore d'Aiglemort didn't strike me as a man given to casual dalliance. There must have been somewhat in it if he was willing to acknowledge Maslin as his heir, at least to Lombelon."
"There's always somewhat in it, my lady!" Ti-Philippe sounded aggrieved. "You of all people should know."
Joscelin cleared his throat.
"Well, yes." Phèdre glanced at her Cassiline consort with amusement. "But betimes more than others."
Despite all the years they have been together, Phèdre and Joscelin have never wed; nor, I think, will they. He was her consort, declared and acknowledged, but he did not share her title. It had to do with the vows he swore as a Cassiline Brother. Although he had broken all of them save one—the one that mattered most—he would not exchange them for the vows of marriage. There was somewhat in it that his sense of honor could not abide. This, Phèdre understood in him.
"Well, that's true enough," Ti-Philippe said, mollified. "Still, whoever the lad's mother was, why blame Imriel? No one forced d'Aiglemort's hand to treason. He was offered a gambit to seize the throne from a young, untried Queen, and he took it."
I was silent, listening to them argue the matter with half an ear. I understood full well why Maslin of Lombelon hated me. We were both the sons of treasonous parents. The difference was that he was landless and poor, laboring in the orchards that would have been his inheritance, while I strolled through them and claimed ownership; a Prince of the Blood, clad in silk and velvet, with the Queen's Champion and a squadron of the Royal Army at my side.
"He's bitter," I said aloud. "Do you blame him?"
Phèdre gave me one of her deep looks. "For being bitter, no. For drawing a weapon on you, yes."
I shrugged. "A pruning hook."
"You can do a lot of damage with a pruning hook," Hugues offered cheerfully, "I could."
"But he didn't," I pointed out.
I thought about it for the remainder of the journey. Once we were within the walls of the City, we dismissed our Royal Army escort. I thanked the men by name, having memorized them as Phèdre had taught me to do, and gave a purse to the Captain to share among them. They saluted me with a good will, and I was glad of that, at least. Any tales they carried to Barquiel L'Envers would be benign. I'd always gotten on well with soldiers, given half a chance.
Therein lay the challenge.
I thought more about Maslin.
He might be a friend, if he knew me. If he gave me a half a chance. Why it mattered, I could not say, except that we shared the heritage of a tainted lineage. And because I had envied him; admired him. He could not know that in some ways, I would gladly trade places with him; that I would happily surrender my claim to Lombelon and the other estates in exchange for the childhood I had lost in Daršanga.
For two days, I mooned around the townhouse, fretting and neglecting my studies, until I came to a decision. When I did, I went to find Phèdre.
She was in her bathing-room, which was the one altar to sheer luxury that she maintains in her household. I paused and would have gone away without knocking, but Eugenie's niece Clory opened the door, her hands glistening with oil.
"Imri." Phèdre's voice, coming from beyond the door, was mild. "Will you out with it now, or later? 'Tis yours to choose, love."
The mingled scent of lavender and mint made me wrinkle my nose. "Now?"
"Come in, then."
I entered and took a seat on the low stool there, hooking my heels over the last rung and propping my chin on my fists. The bathing-room was warm and humid. Candles flickered, burning low in waxen pools. Phèdre lay on the cushioned massage-table, draped only in a short length of finespun linen. Her head was pillowed on her arms. She looked heavy-lidded, languid and indolent, which would have deceived anyone who did not know her.
"Is it Maslin?" she asked.
I nodded. "Do you promise you won't laugh at me?"
"Yes," Phèdre said. "Do you want Clory to leave?"