White Blood (14 page)

“Here, your Highness, let me,” Maryn begged, pushing in to rescue the princess. She grabbed Barilan’s wrist and managed to pry his hand from the earring with no damage done either to it or to Voerell’s earlobe. “You can let your ladies touch up your hair while I finish getting the prince dressed.”

“If you think that’s best.” Voerell stepped back and let Maryn take over. Several of her ladies;-;in;-;waiting came to fuss over the strands of hair that had worked loose from her elaborate braided coiffure. She scowled as she watched Maryn’s quick sure fingers sort all the buttons into their proper places, but Maryn was accustomed enough to the princess’s moods after three months in her service to ignore her. “Be sure you don’t forget the shoes. They were made for Father, and Marolan and Carlich both wore them at their heirship ceremonies.”

“Yes, your Highness.” The shoes were waiting ready in the spot where Maryn had laid them out. She wouldn’t have forgotten, but she suppressed her annoyance with Voerell’s meddling. The princess was wound tight in nervous anticipation of the day’s events. It was the first time her son would be formally presented to Milecha as its newest heir. All the aristocracy of the kingdom would be present, along with envoys from every large or small country with which Milecha maintained diplomatic ties. Little wonder Voerell was fraught to the point where every tiny mishap was magnified into a calamity.

Maryn herself felt an uncomfortable thrill in her gut every time she thought of her own role in the proceedings, holding Barilan before all those watching eyes. Not that they would actually see her. She had grown to appreciate the anonymity her neat blue servant’s uniform gave her. She would blend seamlessly into the background, ignored by all the gathered dignitaries, their attention focused solely on the child in her arms.

The shoes were too small. Try as she might, Maryn could not cram Barilan’s feet into their narrow confines. She stood staring at one little slipper, heavily encrusted with embroidery in gold thread, while Barilan kicked and babbled loudly, and squirmed toward the edge of the bed.

Madam Semprell stopped him from tumbling to the floor. “He must wear the shoes. It’s a matter of tradition. Try again to get them on.”

“I can’t. They’re too small.”

“Too small?” Princess Voerell wailed. “I knew I should have had the Royal Tailor bring them sooner. He could have altered them.”

The words shook Maryn out of her frozen daze. She turned the slipper inside out. “Here, I can fix this. It won’t be pretty, but at least they’ll go on his feet. And under the gown no one will be able to tell.” She went over to the bedside table and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out scissors and a needle.

She felt as if she were desecrating a national treasure, but she crushed her misgivings and ruthlessly snipped the stitches at the back of the slipper until the soft leather separated. She sat down on the bed beside Barilan and shoved the toe of the slipper over his foot. There was a good inch of separation between the panels behind his heel. Semprell held his leg while Maryn ran a handful of loose, sloppy stitches across the gap in between Barilan’s kicks. With great difficulty she managed to tie off the thread. The result looked a dreadful mess, but when she pulled the gown down so nothing but the tips of Barilan’s toes were visible it wasn’t too bad. Voerell sighed in relief, while Maryn set about adapting the other slipper.

She finished just as the third bell rang. Voerell jerked her head up. “Gallows! We were supposed to be in the garden already. Why did the Wonorans have to arrive today, of all days? Hurry!”

Maryn barely had time to grab her crisp starched headscarf and tie it around her braids. Semprell left off fussing with Barilan’s wild tufts of hair, which no amount of water could persuade to lay down flat for more than a few minutes, and thrust him into Maryn’s arms. Maryn fell into place immediately behind Voerell, with Semprell and all Voerell’s ladies;-;in;-;waiting trailing behind them.

Guards waited outside the nursery to escort them down to the garden. Prince Marolan scowled at them as they hurried up. “Where have you been?” he whispered. “The delegation got here a quarter hour ago. I had to keep them waiting! I was about to go on with the greeting without you.”

“Sorry, Marolan,” Voerell said, contrite. “There was a bit of a problem with Barilan’s wardrobe, but we worked it out. You can send for Dolia’s party now.”

“All right,” Marolan said, somewhat mollified, and gestured to one of the guards, who hurried away. Voerell took her place among his entourage, and Maryn stationed herself beside the princess, turning Barilan to face outward so he could be seen and admired. The baby was in a cheerful mood. He always loved walking in the garden, and the late summer morning was pleasantly warm. Maryn was cautiously optimistic that he would remain calm and well behaved.

Duke Whirter put his arm around Voerell and gave a gentle squeeze before returning to formal decorum. Voerell gave her husband a brief smile. Maryn paid close attention as Voerell turned to greet Prince Carlich, where he stood on Marolan’s far side, but the two only exchanged polite nods.

Maryn kept her demeanor carefully neutral, but underneath frustration seethed. She had no idea if either Carlich or Voerell had done anything in the past two weeks to address the threat to Barilan posed by the upcoming marriage. She certainly couldn’t ask the princess about it. All she could do was watch and wait, and hope that she might catch some stray word, or by chance be present when the matter was discussed. Publicly, preparations for the wedding were proceeding on schedule. A month remained before the ceremony, but the closer it got the more disruptive and scandalous a cancellation would be. Maryn hugged Barilan a little tighter. Maybe Voerell had discovered Carlich was wrong, and there was no danger after all.

Marolan ruffled Barilan’s hair, stirring it into wild disorder, completely undoing all Semprell’s work. “He looks adorable. That gown is beautiful.”

“Yes. Can you believe you were ever small enough to wear it?” Voerell beamed at Barilan proudly.

“Not at all. Clearly impossible.” Marolan shot a look at Carlich. “I remember when you wore it, though. Your face was all red, and you cried through the whole ceremony. Mother was so embarrassed.”

Voerell laughed. “Marolan, don’t expect us to believe you remember that. You weren’t even two.”

“Maybe it’s just the stories I remember,” Marolan admitted, shrugging.

“Or maybe it’s the stories of your own ceremony you’re thinking of.” Carlich’s voice was light and teasing, but there was an edge underneath it.

“Possibly.” Marolan refused to be baited. He fondled the tips of Barilan’s toes where they peeked out from under the gown. “And those shoes! Such exquisite workmanship. Let me see—”

Maryn caught her breath, but let it out again in relief when Marolan’s examination of the shoes was cut short by the sound of trumpets. He straightened to rigid attention, every sense focused on the far entry to the garden where a line of soldiers wearing the green uniforms of Wonora had begun to enter.

Behind the soldiers came a number of dignitaries in long, elaborate robes. The most senior of them, a portly man whose breath huffed as he walked, escorted a slim girl with shyly downcast eyes.

Maryn stared curiously at the stranger she’d heard so much about. She knew Dolia was about to turn sixteen, the age when, by Wonoran law, she might legally marry. But she seemed younger. All the Wonorans were somewhat shorter than was average for people of Milecha, and Dolia was a head shorter still than the smallest of the men. Her long black hair hung loose down her back, as no woman in Milecha would wear hers after she turned twelve. But her figure, though slender, had a woman’s curves, and she was beautiful, in an exotic, foreign way. Her dusky olive complexion was smooth, and the slanted almond eyes that flicked up to scan the welcoming party were a rich, deep brown. She wore a close;-;fitting dress in a lustrous fabric heavily decorated with colorful embroidery, which skimmed her body from the high neck all the way down to her toes.

Her escort led Dolia up to meet the delegation assembled to greet her. They stopped a dozen feet away. The herald blew another brief fanfare on his trumpet. Lowering it, he announced in ringing tones, “Ambassador Lord Honro of Wonora. And her Royal Highness Princess Dolia Verimisa Adona Zirwello, Regina of Farleno, Lady of the Fire Isles, only child and heir of King Zirwello of Wonora.”

Despite her worries, Maryn couldn’t help but be caught up in the excitement of the moment. The colors were so bright, the clear ringing of the trumpet so stirring, the ceremonial phrases so rich with tradition. She still found it incredible that she could be a part, however minor, of such important events. She’d never even seen a Wonoran before she’d come to the palace, and here she was in the presence of their princess.

Marolan bowed deeply to his betrothed, with all of his retinue following suit. Maryn had learned the art of curtsying gracefully with a wiggling baby in her arms. The trick was to stay as vertical as possible and extend the rear foot well back to balance the added weight in front. She had practiced until the movement looked smooth, but it still felt awkward.

The Wonoran delegation returned gracious bows of their own. Dolia sank nearly to the ground in a smooth, sweeping flourish like a move from a dance.

Marolan cleared his throat. “Welcome to Milecha. Our kingdom is honored by your presence, and we offer you our unreserved hospitality. I beg you to pardon the absence of my father, King Froethych. He is indisposed this morning, but he is resting to recover his strength and will join us later at the formal ceremony. I greet you in his name, Ambassador Honro, Princess Dolia.”

Maryn was impressed with his ability to deliver the formal phrases steadily, when all the time he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Dolia. For Dolia’s part, she kept sneaking glances up at him from under demurely lowered lashes.

Next to her, the Ambassador chuckled genially and led her closer to Marolan. “We thank you for your warm greeting, Prince Marolan, and raise our prayers to the Holy One that your father’s perfect health be swiftly restored.” He spoke flawless Milechan, though flavored with a lilting accent. “Princess Dolia has been anxious to meet her betrothed. I would be pleased to dispense with the full lengthy formalities of welcome in the interest of allowing the two of you more time to converse with each other.”

“Thank you, Ambassador.” Marolan swallowed, apparently flustered by this deviation from the protocol for which he’d prepared. But he swiftly recovered. “But do let me introduce the rest of my family. Princess Dolia, this is my brother, Prince Carlich.”

“I am very pleased to meet you,” Dolia said, her voice low and husky. Her Milechan was polished and formal, more heavily accented than the Ambassador’s.

Carlich bowed to her with a dramatic flourish. Maryn could detect nothing but courtesy in his manner, whatever private hostility he might harbor toward the Wonoran princess. Rising, he stepped to the side of the path, where a bush laden with delicate pink flowers sent branches arching in every direction. With his jeweled ceremonial knife he cut a long stem bearing a single full dewy blossom and presented it to Dolia. “A rose for you, my future sister;-;in;-;law, though its loveliness pales beside your own.”

Dolia accepted it graciously. Maryn thought she blushed, although her dark skin made it hard to tell. “I thank you.” She studied the flower closely, breathing its scent. “This is a rose? I heard of your roses, though they grow not in Wonora. It is sweet, as the tale;-;singers claim. I thought they must exaggerate.”

“Not at all.” Marolan smoothly inserted himself between Carlich and Dolia. He shot a poisonous look at Carlich. “I hope you find everything in Milecha equally pleasing.”

“I am certain I will.” Dolia twirled the rose between her fingers, eyes fixed on the golden anthers that formed a crown within the soft pink petals.

Maryn looked away, her cheeks hot, and resettled Barilan against her body. Most likely Carlich’s gift was perfectly appropriate, the sort of thing nobles did all the time. But it made her think of his reputation among the servants as a seducer of beautiful women. Surely he couldn’t have designs on his brother’s betrothed? But Dolia was lovely, and closer to his age than Marolan’s. If Carlich wanted to disrupt his brother’s wedding, that was certainly one way to go about it.

Marolan gathered his composure and continued with his introductions. “This is my sister, Princess Voerell, and her husband, Duke Whirter Rottolla. And their son, Prince Barilan, the reason for our festivities today.”

Voerell took Dolia’s hand. Her manner, too, was cordial, betraying no reservations. “I am so pleased to meet my brother’s bride. He keeps thanking me for giving birth to Barilan at such an opportune time, to give you a reason to come to Loempno a full month earlier than you might have otherwise.”

Dolia looked shyly down. “Ambassador Honro goes to the heirship ceremony. I beg my father to sail with him. Why one ship now, another in one month only? He agreed. I wish time to learn the ways of Milecha, that my home will be. I need also practice with your language. Many years I have studied it, but strange it is to me still.”

“Oh, no,” Marolan said. “Your Milechan is wonderful. Much better than my own command of Wonoran. Though I have been working on it.” He cleared his throat and carefully pronounced a long flowing phrase in the liquid syllables of the Wonoran language.

Dolia smiled and answered in the same tongue. Marolan attempted a reply, but apparently badly botched the grammar, because both he and Dolia broke into laughter, and Ambassador Honro suppressed a smirk. Marolan shook his head. “You see, it is I who need to practice your tongue. I hope to have many opportunities to do so before our wedding.” He took Dolia’s hand in his and raised the back of it to his lips. Dolia blushed and fluttered her lashes but did not look away.

If Carlich sought to win Dolia’s affections away from Marolan, it seemed he would have a difficult task. For Barilan’s sake perhaps Maryn should hope for him to succeed. But she found it easy to identify with Dolia, so far from home, little more than a pawn in the games of the powerful. Maryn had been so happy in her own marriage she hated to think others might be less fortunate.