Authors: Vera Nazarian
“
I ask for the Daughter of this House,” he spoke that day, wearing a crisp fine outfit, kneeling in a sunlit room, monochrome gray light and shadows of leaves painting lacework on the floor about him, dancing on his own stately form—the perfect Humbled King. And his voice sounded steady and firm, without a shade of hesitation. Yllva knew this, for she had been present in the Beis household, visiting her dearest friend Lixa, and both of them had watched together, in secret from another room.
Dame Beis, sitting in a large comfortable lounge chair—in fact drowning in its countryish heavy softness—had a very good inkling of what this young lord was about to propose. For, it had all been closely discussed weeks in advance, by all the old matrons of the Noble Ten, and gossiped over until there were no feathers left to pluck on this particular hen-matter. Dame Beis had graciously received him that sunlit silver day, expecting nothing less than a proper old-fashioned Marriage Plea, kneeling and obeisance and all. She was really a daft and sentimental woman in that sense, and Lixa herself quivered in stiff secret shame, in anticipation of how her own mother would imbue the whole affair with melodrama.
Indeed, Lixa also knew what was to come. She did not exactly know who this young man was, for they had never been introduced officially at
Dirvan
. But to say that she had never seen her potential husband would be somewhat of a lie.
When she and Yllva huddled together that day, peeking through thick curtains of a small closet-room at the scene in the guest parlor, Lixa was in fact beholding Lord Harlian for the third time. The first had been from afar, once on an outing in the City. She had been pointed out a speck in the crowd, and the speck had been assigned a name. The second time had been in attendance at Court, before the Regents. Again, merely a slender gaunt man—or to be precise, his straight back—attired in dark masculine velvet and silk, his hair long and dark as the heart of night, gathered behind in a fashionably half-pleated tail. She remembered the back of his head then, remembered very well how the glossy silk ribbon wound through his locks (they also shining with the luxurious gloss of ebony silk), remembered because already then rumors had been spawned about the possibility of such a Marriage.
And then, for the third time, Lixa looked at him, her own hair (once determined to be
red
—whatever that meant in a world of monochrome black and
white
) contrastingly lighter against the heavy dark curls of her friend Yllva, their heads close together, cheek to cheek. They looked on, and this time, owing to an unfortunate angle that limited visibility, she could just barely make out, through the drapery, the pattern of a profile.
“
Is he—handsome, Yllva?” she allowed herself to whisper. “You know him, tell me, is he really—
fine?
”
What she meant by the term “fine,” Lixa did not herself know. It was terrifying enough she revealed, even to her best friend, that she cared about “handsome.” For, Lixa, with her moon-hidden ways, hated to admit curiosity even now.
But Yllva, raven-dark and sun-bright, took one look at her friend, and thought she knew everything, as she has always known her beloved Lixa’s deepest secrets, curiosity, and wants, despite her need to hide all. And Yllva took another look at the man who remained kneeling before Dame Beis, asking for the Daughter of the House.
“
Yes . . .” Yllva whispered then to her friend, meanwhile looking at him, through him almost, and yet seeing the lightest flicker of him—the way he moved, the way his back stiffened, the pump of his diaphragm. “Yes,” she said to Lixa, “he is fine.”
And for a moment there was something so very sad in her eyes, an expression so alien to her joyful self, that even Lixa noticed and almost paused to think. But the next instant, the mischief was back. With a great smile, Yllva announced in an excited whisper, “Oh, Lixa! You are the luckiest, oh, you must have him, Lixa . . . Yes, it will be so perfect, the two of you! He is truly good, I’ve known him forever, it seems, when he was a little boy even. He is—”
Was I a two-faced madwoman that day, lying even to myself, saying this? True friendship, or gracious martyrdom? Or what?
Thus Yllva Caexis thought, sitting in her cheerful guest room, hosting an evening in honor of the near Wedding of the man and woman both of whom she loved best.
And how could my words back then have been any different?
What, then, is fair?
“
Another cup of raspberry liqueur tea? And you must have one of these little round cakes,” she cheerfully spoke to a lady friend, glancing over her shoulder and managing not to look at only one of those present.
Her voice was lilting, bright as dawn, while inside, tremulously controlled, gathered seeping cold dark. Her eyes sparkling brighter than the silver fire of the torchieres and crystal chandeliers of the Villa, she then loudly proposed a “tea-toast,” as was the custom on the hour.
“
It’s ten o’clock! May the Grelias rot,” exclaimed Yllva, delicately balancing her teacup high, “and may laughter boil in the Caexis teapot!”
And while general applause exploded, she forced herself to intone one more thing, in a voice gone hysterical with sorrow-joy-weeping-laughter: “Oh, and don’t forget, my friends, we drink tonight to my Lord Harlian and my Lady Lixa!”
Saying that, she downed her lightly laced tea in a most unladylike manner (which went again unnoticed by the jolly company), and having done that, turned for the first time that evening to the man sitting somewhat shyly away from the rest.
She encountered his eyes at last with a look of easygoing friendship—straightforward, caring, genuine—and nothing more.
It had taken her all this time. She had gathered herself utterly, prepared herself so well for that one look of the evening, her one masterful illusion.
She could do no less, being a true Maiden of the Heart.
* * *
I
t was black as pitch now—that eerie nearly absolute black which came at night. Elasand had slowed down the pace of the horses, because of absolute lack of visibility.
His elegant stallion walked autonomously behind the carriage, seeming to be the only one who now retained trust in him—or so Elas thought. Not a word came from Dame Beis or Lixa, as they had once more drawn the curtains shut.
He had left the driver lying.
One more unnecessary death, inadvertently his fault. What political and social brewing there was, he was, had always been, in the thick of it. Oh, sorry land. . . .
Suddenly—as suddenly as he had forgotten her—Elasand remembered the freewoman on the road. He considered her now, considered how she had come, like a ghost, silent, annoyingly helpful, out of nowhere. Yet he had to admit that without her small timely intervention, gods only knew what might’ve happened to his kinswomen within the carriage.
His austere lips curved upwards in the dark, lightly, since no one would know. There had been a feel of drifter about her.
Yet somehow—his senses told him—she was something else, also. Something more professional. She had projected too smooth a style.
Yet, her reaction to his silver was odd, neurotic. It threw him off now, so that he could not quite place her. . . .
Why do I think of someone insignificant, a chance encounter, unusual but unrepeatable? Our prides must have collided harder than I thought.
But then
, he thought,
it is but details such as these that ever leave impressions
.
If not for the terrible interruption they would have reached the White Roads Inn an hour ago.
Damn! I curse myself! A grave misjudgment I allowed
. . . .
At last, however, as more and more he was beginning to rely upon instinct rather than sight, for blackness was all around, there was a glorious
orange
dot in the distance, shimmering through the lacework of trees, winking in and out of existence, as they moved.
In minutes they had reached the gates, and Elas curtly informed the stable hands, as they came to surround the carriage:
“
Two rooms. And I’ll take care of the horses myself.”
Not another one
, thought a stable hand, but the tip money was practically thrown in his face.
Elasand then added, as an afterthought, “We have been attacked on the road.”
And the commotion began.
CHAPTER 4
M
aster Jirve Lan personally led his fine guests into the common room, seating the two noblewomen on the softest chairs, and silently wondering at the paranoia of their lord, who insisted upon personally seeing to the horses. But no doubt, Jirve recalled with an involuntary shudder, the encounter with the unknown assassins was the cause of such sensitivity. And he proceeded to comfort the two highborn women, completely ignoring the other customers, most of whom had by then come down for dinner.
Besides the merchant napping in the corner, and Nilmet leaning against the bar counter, having abandoned their board game at one of the tables in the back, there were now military guildsmen occupying the long bench along the wall. Other travelers sat at the tables, signifying their readiness for dinner. A drably clad androgynous youth—Jirve’s glance lingered momentarily in confusion—was engaged in talk with Nilmet, seated next to him at the bar.
However, most of the occupants of the common room transferred their interest from contemplation of the upcoming meal to the plight of the aristocratic new arrivals.
Orange
light fell upon the rich silk and brocade of the dame’s gown, and that of the young lady. In no time, eyes were drawn to the hints of depth revealed in the gowns, trying to fathom it, expecting to catch glimpses of the sorcerous
color
dye made by the Light Guild for the elite. Rumors had it that the rich wore extraordinary fabric that retained its own
color
remarkably, when certain monochromes were trained upon it. Such things were secreted away in
Dirvan
, together with all the other wicked wonders that were played out at the festivities of the Regents, underneath the exotic
color
orb-light.
Apparently this was hearsay only. Everyone stared, but saw nothing but the darker shadows that remained, shimmering, in the folds of the noblewomen’s attire—all sweetly stained by the outpouring of the
orange
monochrome.
The dame, handsome despite her years, fanned herself with the palm of her hand, and related over and over how they had been peacefully within the carriage, then heard fearsome shrieks of legendary monsters that were indeed none other than Bilhaar assassins (at the mention of that name, everyone in the room paid attention), and then heard the clash of metal, and her nephew’s voice raised in anger, telling them to remain calm. . . .
Jirve shook his head, his eyes suitably sympathetic, while goblets of refreshment were brought to them. The young lady with unblinking eyes remained silent, nodding at the dame’s words now and then.
The military men listened attentively.
“
Your nephew, His Lordship, must be some swordsman,” said one guildsman. “What amazing single-handed prowess against a whole Bilhaar pack!”
“
Oh, he is, he is,” said the dame, blowing her nose delicately into a silk handkerchief. “But the foolish boy had not provided us with an escort! We almost perished!”
“
My sincere condolences, Your Ladyship,” said another man, and old worn-looking soldier. “Such an awful plight. These are rough times indeed that vermin are coming up from their filth holes and attacking peaceful travelers. May they all rot and get boils on their—”
“
Hey! Watch your language,” said Jirve Lan.
The soldier got nudged in the ribs by the guildsman next to him, at which he coughed, clearing his throat, and said, “I still can’t believe it, Your Ladyship, that Bilhaar would dare to show their ugly faces here.”
“
They didn’t,” said a quiet cold voice. Lixa Beis was staring at the old soldier with disdain. “Their faces were all covered by masks.”
Another traveler spoke up from the back. “The Guilds are beginning to be involved in the most outrageous acts nowadays, it looks to be. Even the idea of an Assassin Guild is an outrage.”
“
And what do you know about Guilds?” said one of the military guildsmen, taking offense. “What Guild do you belong to, that you speak this ignorant nonsense? And if you are Guildless, then you are likely worthless scum yourself—”
The talk became agitated. Others in the room joined in, the comments a bit divergent, yet the tone was the same. No one liked the chaos, the unrest, but none could agree on the underlying cause, nor the solution. The merchant woke up to say that some goods of his had been stolen from a warehouse, only the past month. Two of the travelers were scholars, and one complained about the ease with which he’d been fired from his clerk’s job, due to the unfair demands of the head scribe and lack of proper Guild connections.
The noblewomen listened blankly, finding themselves only marginally fitting into all of this, even though they had served to launch the conversation. They hardly knew what went on in the world beyond the safe confines of their rank.