her instruments 02 - rose point (26 page)

“I gathered that,” Reese said.

“And the lord gave it to you?” she asked. “You didn’t... perhaps... take it by accident?”

Reese eyed her.

“She wouldn’t take any of Hirianthial’s things,” Irine assured Felith.

“And that’s not the dagger Hirianthial carries around anyway,” Sascha said, studying it. “He uses plain ones. That we’ve seen, anyway.”

“He gave it to me,” Reese told Felith. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Felith said, and breathed, “But oh, Captain Eddings! Hirianthial Sarel is a single-dagger man!”

In the confused silence that followed her exclamation, Reese muttered, “I think I need a chair for this.”

“Let’s all have chairs,” Irine said. She took Reese by the wrist and pulled her toward the hearth in her own room. Reese let the Harat-Shar push her down; the stones were still warm, though the fire had died. She set the dagger in her lap and hugged her knees, looking up at Felith.

“So?”

“Ah... you know we dance?”

Wondering what this had to do with anything, Reese said, “Yes—oh wait, does this have to do with the wands and the fans and things?”

“Yes,” Felith said. “We don’t touch when we dance, so women have fans in summer and wands in winter, and men have—”

“Daggers!” Irine said, remembering. “He said that on the way here. You’re supposed to touch wands and daggers instead of hands.”

“Just so,” Felith said. “Most men will use a plain dagger for this purpose, to make it clear they are not courting entanglements. If such a man uses his family weapons, it is a statement of interest. But there are men who only ever use their family weapons, because they seek commitment and will have no truck with dalliances or casual alliances. Your lord was one such. He only ever danced with his wife.”

“His... what?” Reese said, her extremities going cold so quickly her fingers started trembling.

“His wife,” Felith repeated, her expression puzzled. “The lord Hirianthial is a widower. You did not know?”

“That’s... something he never told us, no,” Sascha said.

“How... was... when...” Reese trailed off, unable to phrase a question, unable to choose one. A wife?

Hirianthial had had a wife?

Irine’s voice seemed to come from a distance. “How long ago was this?”

“And are there any kids we should know about?” Sascha asked. “You know, as long as we’re talking about things everyone seems to know except us.”

“Oh no, no children,” Felith said. “The lady Laiselin died in childbed, attempting to bring forth the first, a daughter who would have been the new heir to Sarel Jisiensire. That was some sixty years ago, seventy perhaps.” She sighed. “They were very happy, and had so little time. Not even forty years together and she was gone.”

“’So little time,’” Irine repeated, one ear sagging.

“I guess forty years is ‘so little’ when you live a thousand or two,” Sascha said, quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Felith said. “I thought he would have mentioned it. He was very devoted to her... it was a rare thing to see among us, two who loved each other so and were unafraid to have it known.”

“We never asked,” Reese said. She set her hand on the dagger, tried to flex her stiff fingers around it. “Maybe I should give this back.”

“Oh, no, no,” Felith said. “Keep it, my Lady. Unless you wish to repudiate him...?”

Shocked, she said, “No, never.”

“Then keep it,” Felith said. A distant knock floated to them and she looked up. “I shall see to that. Are you receiving visitors?”

“Sure,” Reese said, forcing herself to leave the dagger in her lap. She set her hands back on her knees. “Or... maybe. I don’t know. Use your discretion.”

Felith hesitated, then curtseyed and said, “As you wish, my Lady.” And vanished into the foyer.

“I’ll go with her,” Sascha said. “Just in case her discretion needs a second opinion.”

Once he’d left, Irine bent and pried Reese’s clammy hands up, warming them with her own. “Come on, I’ll help you dress for whoever’s out there.”

“I guess it was inevitable, right?” Reese said. She should stand, shouldn’t she? If she was going to dress? Why weren’t her legs moving? “You don’t live a million years and not have a wife.”

“I wouldn’t,” Irine said, sitting next to her and sliding an arm around Reese’s shoulders. “I’d have a husband too.”

Reese glanced at her, then managed a weak laugh. “All right, that was a good one.”

Irine grinned and touched her nose to Reese’s shoulder. “What can I say, girls are cuddly.” She flipped her ears back. “Can I ask you something?”

“You probably will anyway.”

“Probably,” Irine admitted. “But still.”

“Sure.”

“Why’d it bother you to learn?” Irine said. “It bothered us too, but I’m guessing not for the same reasons.”

“I guess...” Reese tried to examine her feelings, found them slippery and nameless. “I never thought I really knew him, but it’s still a shock to know just how little I knew.”

Irine glanced at her, yellow eyes close enough that Reese could see the bright golden lashes framing them. “Are you worried that there might be things about him you won’t like?”

“No,” Reese said. “No, nothing like that. Just... maybe... I wish he’d trusted us more.”

Irine’s eyes flicked down to the dagger. “Maybe he’s starting to.” She reached over and wrapped her golden hand over Reese’s on the hilt. “He’s been alone a long time, Reese. When you’re used to being alone, it takes a while to remember how to act around people you like.”

Reese snorted. “Let me guess. You might have noticed this recently in someone else.”

Irine grinned. “This someone else is a lot less prickly lately, and she started out a whole lot less trusting than Hirianthial.”

“Ow! I was not less trusting than an Eldritch!”

“Maybe not all Eldritch,” Irine said sagely. “We seem to have gotten one of the few good ones.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Reese muttered.

Sascha glanced in. “Hey, Boss. You’ll want to come out here for this.”

Reese grimaced. “Don’t tell me something exploded.”

“Uh-uh. But Hirianthial’s got a cousin and she’s come to meet us.”

The woman awaiting them in the parlor was, like all the Eldritch Reese had met so far, tall and fair and elegant. Pregnant—that was new, and knowing how Hirianthial’s wife had died made her suddenly far more aware of it—and animated by an eager interest that made her seem almost human. But for all that, what unnerved Reese was the realization that this woman, who was supposedly Hirianthial’s cousin, looked less like him than the Queen.

Felith said, “Captain Eddings, the Lady Araelis Mina Jisiensire, Shield-bearer and current holder of the seal for Jisiensire, and kin to the train Roshka.”

“Wait,” Irine said. “That’s a Harat-Shariin name!”

“So it is,” Araelis said, eyes dancing. “Sellelvi was made sister to Fasianyl Mina years ago, and so I can claim the relation. She was pard, though, not tigris. May I sit?” she added to Reese. “My feet never cease with the aching.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Reese said, startled. “I’m sorry, I’m not used to hosting in a place like this. Felith, can we get something to drink, maybe? Please?”

Felith smiled. “I shall have it fetched.”

“Don’t feel you have to stand on formality,” Araelis said, an invitation Reese felt a lot more comfortable accepting from her than she had from the Queen. “I have been waiting these many years for out-worlders to come here. We have had a long association with them, through Sellelvi and then the Tams—you know the Tams, of course?—yes, they are friends to us through Lesandurel Meriaen Jisiensire. Outside the Galares, you will find no firmer friend on this world than through us, as I’m sure you know, having traveled with Hirianthial.”

“Your cousin,” Reese said.

“Just so,” Araelis said. “I imagine he has not told you, nor that he used to be the seal-holder for Jisiensire.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Irine asked.

Araelis linked her fingers together over her belly and said, “I think we have a great deal to talk about, you and I. We could begin with my cousin’s relation to the throne, something that should be of particular interest to you.” This she directed at Reese.

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“I’m not!” Irine said, ears perked. “Tell us! Wait, let me guess. He’s the heir to the throne!”

“Not quite...”

“Not
quite
?” Reese repeated.

Araelis smiled. “He and Liolesa are cousins, and have been close since childhood. Queen Maraesa’s sister Rylaniel remained a Galare when she married, of course, being a woman, and had Liolesa... and Maraesa’s brother Theval married into Sarel Jisiensire, and became Hirianthial’s father. So you must understand, Captain... Hirianthial is quite the eligible man. Particularly since he was once, and might be again, a seal-holder. That is to say, a decision maker for all the families that live beneath the banner of a House, and their tenants. He may need your help, thus.”

“My help!” Reese said. “Doing what?”

“Beating all the interested ladies off him, I’m guessing,” Sascha said.

“Look,” Reese said, holding up her hands. “Let’s start from the beginning, all right?” She looked at Araelis. “You seem willing to actually explain all this stuff that no one else wants to talk to us about. I’m not going to ask why in case that gives you a reason to talk yourself into not doing it.” She paused as Araelis hid a grin, poorly. “So... how’s this. I’ll keep pouring the... whatever this is. Tea? Cider? Whatever it is. And you keep going.”

“I can think of no finer way to spend the morning,” Araelis said.

“Even if it breaks the Eldritch veil?” Reese asked.

Araelis snorted. “Once a man’s gotten under it and started kissing, it’s a little late to pull it back down again, Captain.”

Irine pressed her face into Sascha’s shoulder, snickering.

“Oh hush,” Reese told them. To Araelis, “Fine. I’m used to being the knight in dented armor by now. Let’s get on with it.”

The immensity of the morning’s training kept Hirianthial in the library long after Urise had gone, sitting alone in the light with the revelations of the world’s receptive stillness and feeling it implied in the quiet of the room. By the time he found the wherewithal to rise, he had grown stiff enough to need to stretch to settle his joints.

There were people outside the library.

He had not labeled them as threats, had not even realized he was assessing the surrounding area for company. Curious, he let himself out and waited, sensing they were seeking him in particular. When they came into view, he understood some of why: the man leading was in the white-on-white uniform of the Queen’s Sword, and the man at his side in the red-piped white of his second.

They halted before him and saluted. He held up a hand. “Gently,” he said. “I no longer wear the uniform.”

“No,” said the Queen’s White Sword. “But you filled it once and with honor. My predecessor spoke well of you, my lord.”

“Your predecessor,” Hirianthial said. “Was that Suleven?”

“Suleven’s protege was my predecessor,” this man said. “Thelerenan, out of Nuera.”

Two terms since he’d stepped down—not surprising, given the rigors of the work. Protecting the Queen was a job for the young. “And you are, then?”

“Olthemiel Nase, if you please, my Lord. This is my second, Beronaeth.”

“Very good,” he said. “I perceive you were seeking me?”

“You perceive rightly,” Olthemiel said. “Though I fear what I ask might be construed as impertinence.”

The sheen of his aura was fiercely hopeful, touched with a delightful aggression; in the people assigned to his cousin’s safety, he approved. “Let me have the judgment of that. What is it?”

“We have heard a great deal of your prowess, sire,” Olthemiel said. “And thought you might not take it amiss to be invited to use the Swords’ salle, rather than resorting to any lesser facility.”

Hirianthial couldn’t help a chuckle. “And you hope to see me at work. A spar is what you’re asking, is it?”

“Only tangentially,” Olthemiel said with commendable candor. “But yes, that also.”

“You will be disappointed,” Hirianthial said. “It has been six decades since I’ve regularly carried a sword. It is rarely done in the Alliance.”

“Perhaps,” the White Sword said, eyes sparkling, “you might let us have the judgment of that.”

In keeping with the theme of his return to the world, the Sword salle was just as he remembered it: a round room floored in wood with clerestory windows investing everything with a cool, diffuse light. The changing rooms and armory were next to one another at one end of the salle, and the corridor leading to the palace on the other. The Swords’ barracks fed off that corridor as well as their mess. The arrangement led to a close community, one Hirianthial was surprised to learn he’d missed.

He was saluted as he walked behind the White Sword and his second as if he was still one of them. It was always thus: one doffed the uniform, but the brotherhood never forgot one of their own. He’d done it himself, when he’d served his tenure, but to receive it was a very different thing than to offer it.

He stripped down in the changing room among them, aware of their curious glances. He no longer looked entirely like them after his sojourn off-world; like most natives of light gravity worlds, he’d taken poorly to the typical environment in the Alliance and had been offered a medical regimen to acclimate his body. After a year of attempting to make do on his own, he’d finally accepted the treatment. He remained tall and lighter-framed than most of the Alliance’s members, but among Eldritch he was far more solid. Heavy gravity built denser muscle. By the time he’d donned a spare uniform, he’d acquired an audience that followed him onto the salle floor, where Olthemiel offered him his choice of practice weapons; he would not draw a House sword save to blood it. He selected one carved to evoke the standard broadsword issued the Swords and said, “I suppose we shall see how poorly in practice I have kept. Shall we begin with the exercises?”

“As long as we can all join you, sire,” Olthemiel said, grinning. Sobering, he said, “Will you lead them?”