Another lie. He understood very well what eager anticipation looked like on Mieka’s face. He was waiting for something, expecting it, and it would happen the day Rafe wed Crisiant.
Unless Cade said something. Warned him. Oh, yes, he could just picture it: taking Mieka by the shoulders and telling him that this girl was a poison worse than tainted thorn.
“You’ll end up hating each other, and as for what it’ll do to your son—”
It was the only thing that could make him even think about saying something. The look in that little boy’s eyes.
Yet that brought up an entirely new question, one he’d never encountered before. If Mieka believed his warning, then that little boy would never be born, nor the brother or sister the girl was carrying when Mieka knocked her to the floor. If Cayden spoke, those children would never live. But only if Mieka believed him.
He might; he’d believed what Blye had told him on little if any evidence at all. He might believe this, too—
—only he wouldn’t
believe
it. He’d say it was only a possibility, and now that he knew, he’d make sure it never happened. He’d assure Cade that he’d make a change here and there, decide one way instead of another, ever alert to the possibility that he could end up drunk and thorn-thralled and beating his pregnant wife.
Variations on
How can I change this?
had been torturing Cayden for years. He could cope with it. Barely. But Mieka, creature of impulse and impatience and instinct—it would either drive him mad or make him banish the whole concept from his mind when what he thought he might have to do conflicted too strongly with what he desired.
He desired this girl. Should Cade manage to convince him that it was potential disaster and he gave her up, it would remain between them the rest of their lives. And that would be poisonous, too. Mieka must make his own decisions, choices, even mistakes. His life wasn’t Cade’s to manipulate.
The night Cade decided this, he had the most horrible and most selfish dream of all. Mieka, sad-eyed and scared, not their lively, laughing Elf at all, hands reaching out, pleading with him:
“Don’t let go—please, Quill, don’t ever let go—”
His answer was to shake his head and turn away, feeling nothing. Nothing, for the one who had said to him,
“It’s not in you to be wicked, Cade, nor cruel,”
who had written to him,
Don’t worry about going too lost, Quill, I’ll always come find you.
Feeling nothing, he could become the man who looked at stark cold words on a scrap of paper and say,
“But I’m still here.”
“His mind’s cold, but his heart’s colder.”
And then one morning he was standing in the portico of a High Chapel overlooking the Plume, wearing his finest clothes and his little silver falcon pinning his neckband (dazzlingly white silk, plain and unadorned, unlike the embroidered and pleated extravagance knotted around poor Rafe’s neck). He did his duty and cordially welcomed each guest—Threadchaser and Bramblecotte family and friends, Blye and Derien and Mistress Mirdley, Jeska and his mother, Lord Kearney Fairwalk, the Shadowshapers with their ladies—smiling and bantering with everyone as it was his role as bride’s patron to do. The man who stood beside a future husband wasn’t there for him: he was there on behalf of the future wife, his very presence reminding her bespoken that if he didn’t live up to his promises, there was someone around who’d set him right in a hurry. This was naturally the source of a thousand jokes (and quite a few playlets, most of them obscene) and by the time Rafe and Crisiant arrived, Cade had heard all of them at least twice. Crisiant’s three sisters were Cade’s counterparts, who would advise her if they considered her lax in her duties as a wife. The fate of anyone daring to give Crisiant advice about anything didn’t bear contemplation, but tradition was tradition.
Rafe sauntered over to Cade, who stood at the closed doors leading into the High Chapel. “Everybody here?”
“Almost. We’re waiting on the Windthistles and your mother—they’re probably fretting the last-instant arrangements.”
“Cakes, pies, pastries, and alcohol for all this mob—remind me to have daughters, not sons. That way, all I’ll have to do is show up and when the Good Brother asks, ‘Who gives this maiden?’—”
“—you’ll say, ‘For the sake of my sanity,
take
her!’”
They were still grinning at each other when the outer door swung open and Mieka gamboled through, pausing to bow before Crisiant with a flourish of the peacock-blue cloak that covered him throat to boots. He spoke a few words that actually made her smile and blush. Hurrying over to Rafe and Cayden, he exclaimed, “I’ve never seen her look so lovely! Whatever did you do to deserve her?”
Rafe shrugged. “I’m me.”
The Good Brother approached then, with some question about the loving cups. True to his word, Rafe had chosen Mieka to present them during the ceremony. He would also be true to his word if Mieka dropped them.
“Isn’t that right?” he said, turning to address the Elf—who had vanished. “Where in all hells has he got to?”
Cade looked around.
The girl had her back turned. Mieka plucked the ivory-colored cloak from her shoulders, draped it over his arm with his own. She was a tiny thing; she could fit right beneath Mieka’s chin. Twisted in the bronze-gold hair tumbling down her back was a blue-violet silk scarf, a match for the neckband tied at Mieka’s collar.
“Quill!” he called suddenly, voice high with excitement. “I want you to meet someone!”
The girl turned, and met Cade’s eyes, and smiled. There was no sudden curiosity, no puzzlement or shock or indignation at what he knew must be scrawled all over his face. What he felt didn’t matter.
He
didn’t matter. The smile curved sweetly on her mouth that was soft and innocent as a child’s, and in her eyes was triumph and greedy possession as she looked at Mieka.
From within the High Chapel came the rippling notes of Alaen Blackpath’s lute. The Windthistles jostled through the entry, and Rafe’s parents rushed to kiss him and Crisiant, and Cade glimpsed Mieka yanking open the doors.
This life, and none other?
Any
life rather than this one.
Places
Gallantrybanks
capital city, seat of government; sometimes abbreviated as Gallytown; a Gallybanker is a native of the capital
Amberwall Square
Beekbacks Lane
Chaffer Stroll
section of Beekbacks where the prostitutes walk
Criddow Close
location of Blye’s glassworks
Downstreet
tavern
Kiral Kellari
upscale tavern, with a real stage
Marketty Round
Narbacy Street
The Plume
waterfall near Waterknot Street
Redpebble Square
street address of the Silversun house
Spillwater
district in Gallantrybanks
Tullyhowe Lane
Waterknot Street
ritzy area of Gallantrybanks
Wistly Hall
the Windthistle home
The Winterly Circuit
Bexmarket
rough industrial town
Castle Biding
site of the major chartered fair
Castle Eyot
country residence of Lord Rolon Piercehand
Clackerly Minster
even rougher industrial town
Coldkettle Castle
Dolven Wold
Frimham
seaside resort town
Lilyleaf
resort town with mineral baths
New Halt
roughest industrial town of all, and proud of it
Scatterseed
Seekhaven
the royal family’s main country residence; site of Trials
Shollop
university town
Sidlowe
Stiddolfe
university town
Other Places
Cloffin Crossriver
Cranking Vale
Culch Minster
combination monastery and prison
The Flood
strait between the Kingdom and the Continent
Frannitch
country directly across the Flood
Gowerion
village outside Gallantrybanks
The Islands
Pennynine Mountains
Spoonshiner River
Tincted Downs
Vasty Moor
Westercountry
Terms
backs
street behind buildings
bantling
infant
becast
bespell
beek
to bask in the sun or before a fire
beholden
thank you
bellytimber
hearty, nourishing food
beseek
beseech
bespoken
betrothed
bind
another word for a spell; also binding
blashed
weak or watered down
blatteroon
person who won’t shut up; constant talker
bodge
to fix something badly
bonding
the connection between an Elf and his or her beloved
bonelock
arthritis
bothy
hut for unmarried workmen; here, university dormitories
breedbate
someone who likes to start arguments or stir up quarrels
broadsheet
newspaper
chafferer
a vendor who enjoys bantering while making a sale
chankings
food you spit out
chapel
generic for a church
Chapel
specific church, or the religion itself
chavish
the sound of many people chattering at once
cheveril
kid leather
chirr
vibrating, high-pitched trilling
chirurgeon
surgeon
Circuit
set round of venues for traveling players; includes theaters, castles, town halls, guild halls, etc.; the three levels are Winterly, Ducal, and Royal
cloffin
to sit idly by the fire
cogger
a charming trickster
collifobble
to talk secretly
Colvado
a type of apple brandy
corn-plaits
stick figures made of corn stalks
cranking
winding
cribble
sort out
criddow
someone broken or bowed down by age, sickness, poverty, or grief
croodle
to coo like a dove
culch
rubbish or refuse of every variety
cullion
rude, disagreeable, mean-spirited person
downdrins
an afternoon drinking session
Elf-light
small flame conjured by persons with Fire Elf ancestry; also the light used in streetlamps
eyot
a small island, especially one found in a river
fettler
one who puts things in order
firepocket
portable brazier, sometimes magically stoked
flirt-gill
a light woman
flite
to quarrel or brawl in words
fliting
an exchange of invective, abuse, or mockery, especially one in verse set forth between two poets
flyndrig
an impudent or deceiving woman
fribbler
foolish, fussy man
fritlag
a worthless, good-for-nothing man
frustle
shake out and exhibit plumage
gallantry bank
field where there used to be a gallows
ginnel
a narrow passage between buildings
gleet
slimy, sludgy, greasy filth
glisk
subtle sensation; a slight touch of pleasure or a twinge of pain that penetrates the soul and passes quickly away
grassed
informed upon; ratted out
grinagog
stupid, gaping grin
hire-hack
small carriage for hire
Huszar
mercenary cavalry from the Continent
kag
the stump of a broken tooth; in this, mutilated Elfen ears
Longseer
someone who can view events at great distances
minster
monastery/nunnery
miscreate
illegitimate
nayword
catchphrase, byword
nestcock
househusband
pillock
idiot; fool
pingle
to fiddle with one’s food, showing little interest or appetite
playlet
sequence of two or three short scenes; usually lasts fifteen minutes to half an hour
Presence Lamps
lit outside the chapel or minster to signify the presence of the Lord and Lady, and of their priests, within
prickmedainty
man or woman compulsively fastidious about dress, appearance, and manners
quidam
an obscure somebody somewhere
quiddle
to dawdle or procrastinate in carrying out one’s duty
rumbullion
old word for rum
sapskull
idiot
scroyle
a scabby fellow
scuffled
scrambled
smatchet
impudent, contemptible child
snarge
a person no one likes; a total jerk
sparge
to make moist by sprinkling
stroll
street where prostitutes parade
strutty
boastful, conceited