The Mystic Marriage (30 page)

My dearest Lissa,

Had they been so unguarded? The rumors that had circulated later about the baron’s continued bachelorhood had never mentioned any name. Had they been so certain their correspondence would remain secret? Or had he ceased to care?

My dearest Lissa,

I will not pretend to understand your newfound loyalty. There is no need for it. No reason for it. And there will certainly be no reward for it. If Arpik could not stir a scrap of affection for you during all those years when you strove to be a dutiful wife, what do you expect now that he has the proof of your betrayal before him?

The proof of your betrayal.
That was me,
Barbara thought.
I was the proof.

You paid your penance long before committing the sin. When I was willing to risk everything, you were all caution. What use is caution now? Through all those years, you feared what you might lose, when you had nothing. Now you have something worth fighting for: your child, if not your love for me. Let me take you to Saveze. Arpik cannot touch you there.

Barbara leafed through the remainder of the text. More pleas. Plans upon plans. The desperation of a man at wit’s end. And nothing had come of it. That much she knew. Whatever Lissa’s written answer had been, her true answer had been to follow Arpik into debtors’ prison. She reached back in memory. The baron had never told her mother’s story plainly; it had always been hints and allusions. But none of those hints fit with this letter. The story she knew—the story she had taken in with every breath—was that Lissa’s family had abandoned her and Lissa had withdrawn in shame from all other contacts. She could swear that the baron had outright claimed that he knew nothing of her plight until the last, when she wrote to him from prison. The casket of letters gave the lie to that. Barbara might not have her mother’s letters in return, but their existence whispered from between the pages.

The baron had lied. By implication, if not directly. Why should that be a surprise? She’d seen him at work in the court and in his business dealings. He’d lied to many people in his time. She’d known his story for a lie the moment she knew the secret of her birth and seen the proof of her true parentage. But she hadn’t before given thought to just where that story had gone astray from truth. Or how badly. Could she trust any of it?

At a sudden thought, Barbara leafed back to the previous missive. This one was quite different in almost every way: a stiff, formal letter on a single sheet and one of the few not addressed to Lissa.

The twentieth of March in the year 1798. To Maistir and Maisetra Sovitre, on the Molindrez, Greetings from Marziel Lumbeirt, Baron Saveze

I feel deeply the honor that you do me in asking me to stand as godfather to your daughter. I will meet you at the church of Nes’ Donna Muralis at the time and day you name when arrangements have been made for the other child. Believe me to be your servant in Christ,

Saveze

The other child. Her? That would explain why she had failed in all her searches for her baptismal record back before she’d learned of her true father. Our Lady By the Wall was a tiny church out on the unfashionable western edge of the city. It must have been near to where the Sovitres were living at the time. A picture began to come clear: a small, private ceremony that would invite no notice and thus no comment. The cover of Margerit’s christening to explain his presence. A chance for the baron to lay some small claim on his daughter in the role of godfather. No doubt the two mothers had stood up for each other’s child, eliminating the risk of other witnesses.

She returned the letters to the top of the stack and leafed down to the very first.

The first of October, in the year 1787, From Marziel Lumbeirt at Saveze to Maisetra Elisebet Anzeld, greetings etc.

Barbara glanced back at the date. No, that was well before Tarnzais, when he unexpectedly inherited the title.
At
Saveze, not
of
Saveze.

I have sent this message enclosed with a letter to the most reverend mother who oversees your studies in the hopes that she will consider it suitable for you to receive. As I have written to her, in my father’s day it was the custom of the Barons Saveze to hold a festival in honor of Saint Orisul’s feast day. My brother has granted me permission to host the festival this year. In gratitude for the great kindness your family showed me in allowing me to travel with you here to Saveze for my convalescence, I would like to invite you and your charming namesake to attend as my special guests.

It was light and impersonal. And yet she had preserved it. Had they meant anything to each other then? Had some spark been struck on that journey? Or had it grown gradually, nurtured by chance and opportunity? Lissa would have been just on the brink of her dancing season, spending her last year at the school. And the baron… He had been meant to be a priest. Had Lissa turned his head? Or had his vocation never been more than a bending to expectations? Each answer only brought more questions.

She took up the next page. This one was both discreet and daring. There was no date, no salutation. If not for its place in the sequence, there would have been no knowing what it meant.

I will arrange to deliver this into your hands secretly as you requested, though I cannot like to do so. To my vow of devotion you answered that men’s words are like the blooming of a rose: soon withered and forgotten. Since you will not believe what is written in my heart’s blood, I set out this pledge in mere ink. I have written to my mother declaring that I will not take vows this year. Whether I take them at all depends on you. If you will not have me, God may receive what remains. When your dancing year is complete, if you are still of the same mind, I will speak to your father. But I think it more likely that the salles of Rotenek will offer you greater temptations than my poor promise. More than this I cannot pledge, for I will do nothing to bring your name into disrepute. Neither will I bring blame on the good Sisters who have you in their keeping. There has been nothing improper between us but no one would believe that if I speak before the season is complete. If these words suffice, then I will remain in hope until we meet again.

What a mix of caution and passion! And on what was it based? There were a few clues in the letters. A journey together under the watchful eyes of her parents. A day in company at a festival with the nuns as
vizeino
. But from the allusions, this must have been written as summer was coming on and Lissa was at the end of her schooldays. It was unexceptional for those of the manor and village to attend services at Saint Orisul’s if they chose. More than one romance had been fed on nothing more than smoldering looks and a word in passing under public eye. More than half a year?
And how long did it take to know my own heart?
Barbara thought.
One month at most.
But if Lissa and the baron had both formed the attachment at a time when no other vows bound them, where had it all gone wrong? She reached for another letter.

When Margerit came in, Barbara asked, “So soon?” then looked up to notice that lamps had replaced daylight and saw the reminder of the untouched tea tray on the table by the door. She had been only vaguely aware of the comings and goings that accompanied them.

Margerit came to lean closely over her shoulder and ask, “The casket?”

“Letters,” Barbara confirmed. “From the baron.”

“Oh.” There was a world of wonder, curiosity and patience in the one word.

Barbara shuffled them back into a single pile and pressed her cheek against Margerit’s hand where it lay on her shoulder. “Do you mind waiting?” she asked. “I don’t…I’m not ready to—”

“Of course.”

“No secrets,” Barbara said quickly with a reassuring smile. “But I’ve barely started looking through them and…and I need time to think before I talk about it.” She looked up. “In what I’ve read so far, your mother shows up rather often. I wouldn’t keep that from you.” She smiled at the eager interest in Margerit’s face and closed the lid of the casket once again. “Is it time to dress for dinner already?”

At Margerit’s nod, she rose.

* * *

An invitation to dine with Lord and Lady Marzim always meant a noisy and cheerful affair, as long as there were no guests from outside the family to cast a veil of formality over the proceedings. But that was rare, as the Pertineks’ notion of family was generous and encompassing and tonight was no exception. Barbara recalled that it had been scant months into her first season in the title before she had been included within that circle, as if truly a cousin-in-law. And as Lady Marzim refused to banish politics to the men’s after-dinner brandy, Barbara felt no surprise now when her host leaned across his dinner partner to ask, “Will you be attending the sessions next week?”

She laughed. “I’m not yet so bored with life that I’ll be joining the graybeards in their debates. If I’m needed for a vote, someone will let me know.”

“I would have thought you might have a special interest in Chormuin’s bill.”

Barbara cast about in memory. “I’d heard he was slipping something in right when everyone’s eager to finish before Holy Week. I thought it was just a matter of regularizing how evidence is presented in the courts. I may have studied the law, but I’m not likely to be allowed to practice. What special interest could I have?”

“There’s a new clause added. He proposes to exclude the duel. Hadn’t you heard?”

“Outlaw dueling?” came a woman’s voice from the far end of the table. “That would make half the young men in Rotenek felons!”

“Not duels of honor,” Marzim explained. “Only judicial duels. Now what do you think of that, Saveze?”

Without even thinking, Barbara answered, “It’s long overdue. Duels of honor are another matter. Just as a man has a right to defend his body against attack, even though he fails, so too he’s obliged to protect his honor, even if lies prevail. But judicial duels should have no place in a civilized world.”

Several heads near her turned in surprise. “And yet you challenged that Chazillen boy,” another man said.

Barbara frowned and glanced over at Margerit, but she was turned away, chatting with her neighbor. She tried to find the right words. “To invoke the
duellum iudicialis
is either the act of a bully or a desperate man. I’d prefer to think that I was desperate. But if Estefen had accepted, would it have made him any more guilty because I was skilled with a blade? No, let judgments be based on truth. And if there isn’t enough truth, then find more truth, but there’s no truth in the point of a sword.”

Lord Marzim had a look of satisfaction, as if a deal had been struck. “Then I will see you at the sessions?”

She smiled ruefully. “I suppose you might. My first sally onto the field of debate!”

* * *

Having made her decision, there was a great deal of research to do in the days that followed. The volumes of legal commentaries that she’d barely touched in the past two years gave forth the history of the matters under debate—the ordinary revisions as well as those concerning the duel. If she were to make her maiden speech, she didn’t care to look a fool even in the smallest of details. And, too, attending the sessions was sure to mean a chance to encounter Elisebet with little remark from anyone. It would be good to finish up that question about Chautovil before then.

She gave Tavit a day’s notice of her intentions and was surprised when he asked, “The Red Oak again, or perhaps Filip’s or the Cavern?”

He grinned a little when she raised a brow quizzically. “Marken said that it might be good to be familiar with the university quarter.”

It seemed that
Marken said
would become a regular part of her life. “The Cavern, I think. But since you have some time to spare tomorrow, go see where Dozzur Basille’s students go after his lecture—the older ones that seem to know each other. Not the well-born ones; they wouldn’t be interested in this sort of politics. And not the quiet, bookish ones; they wouldn’t have time for it. Don’t be too obvious; wear something ordinary. Your old clothes will do if you still have them.” She watched him store the instructions carefully away. “Questions?”

“No, Mesnera.”

He should have had questions, but let him find his own way. “When you have time, start learning your way around the palace. You’ve heard my plans? So start with the area around the Assembly Hall. Take one of my cards and show it to the page at the gate. He’ll pass you along to the right people.” And when he looked dubious: “The palace is just another grand house. They deal with this all the time.”

“Yes, Mesnera.”

Tavit was doing well enough so far. Marken’s only comment after the first few days was, “He keeps himself to himself. I like that.” But Marken’s tentative approval showed in the hints and advice that left their traces in Tavit’s work.

* * *

The Assembly Hall was rarely filled during debates of the sessions, certainly not in the way it had been for the succession council. Even attendance for the votes didn’t come close, unless the matter stirred serious passions. Yet it was crowded enough to require a long glance to find an empty space among suitable company. Tavit leaned closely to ask, “Will you want me to remain, Mesnera? Or should I return later?”

It took a moment to recall that he hadn’t been steeped in the rituals of the palace as she had. She nodded toward the benches along the far wall. “Over there. I don’t imagine you’ll find the speeches interesting, but I always found it a good opportunity to study people.”

He hesitated before going to take his place and asked, “Mesnera? Who attends these sessions?”

She looked at him curiously. Did he have an interest in politics? “The titled lords, the bishops, the great lords of state, a few of Her Grace’s ministers, the mayor of Rotenek and those of the other larger towns. The generals, though they usually fall within one of the other groups as well. But never all at once. I doubt one in five has an interest in the day-to-day matters. I certainly don’t.”