Court Duel

Court Duel

By Sherwood Smith

PROLOGUE

THE SCRIBES IN THE HERALDRY GUILD WRITE THE history of
Remalna. What I am doing here is telling my own history: how I,
Meliara Astiar, who grew up running wild with the village girls
and scarcely knew how to read, managed to find myself swept up
in the affairs of kings.

Who will read my history? I try to imagine my
great-great-great-granddaughter finding this book some wintry
day—because in summer, of course, she will be rambling
barefoot through the mountains, just like I did. Harder to
imagine are people in other lands far from Remalna, and in
future times, reading my story.

You might ask why I wrote this, when we have court scribes
whose job it is to record important events. One thing I have
learned while reading histories is that though the best scribes
will faithfully report
what
people did at crucial
moments, they often can only guess at
why.

The scribes will begin, for example, with the fact that I
was the second child born to the Count and Countess of Tlanth,
a county high in the northwest mountains of Remalna. My
brother, Branaric, was the elder.

Even in our remote part of the kingdom, the people struggled
under King Galdran Merindar's heavy taxes and became restless
under his increasingly unfair laws. My father paid most of
those taxes himself to spare our people, and thus we Astiars,
in our old, crumbling castle, were not much better off than the
poorest of our villagers.

Our mother was killed when Branaric and I were young. We
were certain it was done by the order of the King, but we did
not know why. It was enough to make our father—until then
a recluse—work hard to overthrow an increasingly bad
government. On his deathbed ten years later, he made Branaric
and me swear a vow to free the country from the wicked King.
Branaric and I shared the family title, as Count and Countess
of Tlanth, and shared the work of governing our county and
preparing for the revolt.

Soon after Father's death we discovered the latest, and
worst, of King Galdran's acts: He was going to betray our
Covenant with the mysterious and magical Hill Folk in order to
harvest and sell the fabulous colorwood trees, which grow
nowhere else in the world. The forests have been home to the
Hill Folk since long before humans settled in Remalna. The
Covenant made with the Hill Folk centuries before our time
guaranteed that so long as we left the forests—common
trees as well as our fabulous colorwoods—uncut, they
would give us magical Fire Sticks each fall, which burned
warmly until at least midsummer.

So, untrained and ill prepared, Branaric and I commenced our
revolt.

It was a disaster.

Oh, we were successful enough at first, when the huge army
the King sent against us was led by his cowardly, bullying
cousin Baron Debegri. But when the Marquis of
Shevraeth—son of the Prince and Princess of
Renselaeus—replaced Debegri, we lost ground steadily. I
stumbled into a steel trap our side had set out in a desperate
attempt to slow up Shevraeth's army, was caught, and was taken
by the Marquis to the capital, where the King condemned me to
death without permitting me to speak a word in my defense.

But I escaped—with help—and limped my way back
toward home, chased by two armies. Both Branaric and I nearly
got killed before we found out that some of King Galdran's
Court aristocrats—led by the Marquis of
Shevraeth—had actually been working to get rid of the
King without launching civil war.

King Galdran and Baron Debegri forced us into a final
battle, in which they were killed. After that Branaric rode
with the Marquis and his allies to the royal palace Athanarel
in Remalna-city, the capital, and I retreated home. As a reward
for our aid, Shevraeth—who was favored to become the new
king—turned over Galdran's personal fortune to Branaric
and me.

That much, I know, is in the records.

What the scribes don't tell, because they don't know, is
exactly how—and why—I subsequently got mixed up
again in royal affairs.

It began with a letter from the Marquise of
Merindar—sister of the late King Galdran.

ONE

I STOOD AT MY WINDOW, AN OLD BUT COMFORTABLE blanket wrapped
about me. The warmth of the low midwinter sun through the new
paned glass was pleasant as I read again the letter that had
arrived that day.

Esteemed Countess Meliara:

I have had the pleasure of meeting, and entertaining,
your estimable brother, Count Branaric. At every meeting he
speaks often and fondly of his sister, who, he claims, was the
driving spirit behind the extraordinary events of last
year.

He also promised that you will come join us at Court,
but half a year has passed, and we still await you. Perhaps the
prospect of life at the Palace Athanarel does not appeal to
you?

There are those who agree with this sentiment. I am one
myself. I leave soon for my home in Merindar, where I desire
only to lead a quiet life. It is with this prospect in mind
that I have taken up my pen; I would like, very much, to meet
you. At Merindar there would be time, and seclusion, to permit
leisurely discourse on subjects which have concerned us
both
—
especially now, when the country has the
greatest need of guidance.

Come to Merindar. We can promise you the most pleasant
diversions.

I await, with anticipation, your response—or your
most welcome presence.

And it was signed in a graceful, flourishing hand,
Arthal Merindar.

A letter from a Merindar. I had brought about her brother's
defeat. Did she really want friendship? I scanned it for
perhaps the tenth time. There had to be a hidden message.

When I came to the end, I looked up and gazed out my window.
The world below the castle lay white and smooth and glistening.
We'd had six months of peace. Though the letter seemed friendly
enough, I felt a sense of foreboding, as if my peace was as
fragile as the snowflakes outside.

"Looking down the south road again, Meliara?"

The voice startled me. I turned and saw my oldest friend,
Oria, peering in around the door tapestry. Though I was the
countess and she the servant, we had grown up together,
scampering barefoot every summer through the mountains,
sleeping out under the stars, and dancing to the music of the
mysterious Hill Folk. Until last winter, I'd only had Oria's
cast-off clothing to wear; now I had a couple of remade gowns,
but I still wore the old clothes to work in.

She smiled a little as she lifted the tapestry the rest of
the way and stepped in. "I tapped. Three times."

"I was
not
looking at the road. Why should I look
at the road? I was just thinking—and enjoying the
sunshine."

"Won't last." Oria joined me at the window. "A whole week of
mild weather? That usually means three weeks of blizzard on the
way."

"Let it come," I said, waving a hand. I was just as glad to
get off the subject of roads as I was to talk about all the new
comforts the castle afforded. "We have windows, and heat vents,
and cushions. We could last out a year of blizzards."

Oria nodded, but—typically—reverted right back
to her subject. "If you weren't looking down the road, then
it's the first time in weeks."

"Weeks? Huh!" I scoffed.

She just shrugged a little. "Missing your brother?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I'll be glad when the roads
clear—Branaric did promise to come home." Then I looked
at her. "Do you miss him?"

Oria laughed, tossing her curly black hair over her
shoulder. "I know I risk sounding like an old woman rather than
someone who is one year past her Flower Day, but my fancy for
him was nothing more than a girl's dream. I much prefer my own
flirts now." She pointed at me. "That's what you need, Mel,
some flirts."

I too had passed my Flower Day, which meant I was of
marriageable age, but I felt sometimes as if I were ten years
younger than Oria. She had lots of flirts and seemed to enjoy
them all. I'd never had one—and I didn't want one. "Who
has the time? I'm much too busy with Tlanth. Speaking of busy,
what make you of this?" I held out the letter.

Oria took it and frowned slightly as she read. When she
reached the end, she said, "It seems straightforward enough,
except... Merindar. Isn't she some relation to the old
king?"

"Sister," I said. "The Marquise of Merindar."

"Isn't she a princess?"

"While they ruled, the Merindars only gave the title
'prince' or 'princess' to their chosen heir. She carries the
family title, which predates their years on the throne."

Oria nodded, pursing her lips. "So what does this mean?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. I did help bring
about the downfall of her brother. I think a nasty letter
threatening vengeance, awful as it would be to get, would be
more understandable than this."

Oria smiled. "Seems honest enough. She wants to meet
you."

"But why? And why now? And what's this about
'guidance'?"

Oria looked back at the letter, her dark brows slightly
furrowed, then whistled softly. "I missed that, first time
through. What do you think she's hinting at, that she thinks
the new king ought not to be king?"

"That is the second thing I've been wondering about," I
said. "If she'd make a good ruler, then she ought to be
supported ..."

"Well, would she?"

"I don't know anything about her."

Oria handed the letter back, and she gave me a crooked grin.
"Do you want to support her bid for the crown, or do you just
want to see the Marquis of Shevraeth defeated?"

"That's the third thing on my mind," I said. "I have to
admit that part of me—the part that still rankles at my
defeat last year—wants him to be a bad king. But that's
not being fair to the country. If he's good, then he should be
king. This concerns all the people of Remalna, their safety and
well-being, and not just the feelings of one sour
countess."

"Who can you ask, then?"

"I don't know. The people who would know her best are all at
Court, and I wouldn't trust any of
them
as far as I
could throw this castle."

Oria grinned again, then looked out the window at the sunlit
snowy expanse.

Materially, our lives had changed drastically since the
desperate days of our revolt against Galdran Merindar. We were
wealthy now, and my brother seemed to have been adopted by the
very courtiers whom we had grown up regarding as our enemies.
While he had lingered in the capital for half a year, I had
spent much of my time initiating vast repairs to our castle and
the village surrounding it. The rest of my time was spent in
banishing the ignorance I had grown up with.

"How about writing to your brother?" Oria asked at last.

"Bran is good, and kind, and as honest as the stars are
old," I said, "but the more I read, the more I realize that he
has no political sense at all. He takes people as he finds
them. I don't think he'd have the first notion about what makes
a good or bad ruler."

Oria nodded slowly. "In fact, I suspect he would not even
like being asked." She gave me a straight look. "There is one
person you could ask, and that is the Marquis of
Shevraeth."

"Ask the putative next king to evaluate his rival? Not even
I would do that," I said with a grimace. "No."

"Then you could go to Court and evaluate them yourself," she
stated. "Why not? Everything is finished here, or nearly. We
have peace in the county, and as for the house, you made me
steward. Will you trust me to carry your plans forward?"

"Of course I will," I said impatiently. "But that's not the
issue. I won't go to Court. I don't want to ..."

"Don't want to what?" Oria persisted. I sighed.

"Don't want to relive the old humiliations."

"What humiliations?" she asked, her eyes narrowed as she
studied me. "Mel, the whole country thinks you a heroine for
facing down Galdran."

"Not everyone," I muttered.

Oria crossed her arms. "Which brings us right back," she
said, "to that Marquis."

I sighed again. "If I never see him again, I will be
content—"

"You'll not," Oria said firmly.

I shook my head and looked out sightlessly at the snow, my
mind instead reliving memories of the year before. I could just
picture how he must have described our encounters—always
in that drawling voice, with his courtier's wit—for the
edification of the sophisticates at Court. How much laughter
had every noble in the kingdom enjoyed at the expense of the
barefoot, ignorant Countess Meliara Astiar of Tlanth?

"Lady Meliara?" There was a tap outside the door, and Oria's
mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and I both stared in
surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully.
"More Fire Sticks?" I asked. "In midwinter?"

"Just found them outside the gate." Julen laid them down,
looked from one of us to the other, and went out.

Oria grinned at me. "Maybe they're a present. You did save
the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it."

"
I
didn't do it," I muttered. "All I did was make
mistakes."

Oria crossed her arms. "Not mistakes. Misunderstandings.
Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the more reason to
go to Court—"

"And what?" I asked sharply. "Get myself into trouble
again?"

Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social
gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like
that sometimes. We'd be working side by side, cleaning or
scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up
the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she
the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter
and discuss it or not as I saw fit.