Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (43 page)

“Arista!”

She turned to see the doors to the throne room open. Her
brother, Alric, stood trapped behind the guards, who quickly stood aside. He was wearing the white fur mantle Julian insisted he drape over his shoulders at all state functions and the heavy gold crown, which he pushed to the back of his head. “What is your problem? You sound like a raving lunatic.”

“I’ll tell you what my problem is. I’m not going to let you do this to me. You are not going to send me off to Alburn or Warric like some—some—state commodity.”

“I’m not sending you to Warric or Alburn. We’ve already decided you are going to Dunmore.”

“Dunmore?” The word hit her like a blow. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

“I was going to tell you tonight. Although, I thought you’d take it better. I figured you’d like it.”

“Like it? Like it! Oh yeah, I love the idea of being used as a political pawn. What are they giving you in return? Is that what you were doing in there, auctioning me off?” She rose on her toes, trying to get a look over her brother’s shoulders to see who he was hiding in the throne room. “Did you have them bidding on me like a prized cow?”

“Prized cow? What are you talking about?” Alric glanced behind him self-consciously and closed the doors. He waved at Julian and Jacobs, shooing them away. In a softer voice he said, “It will give you some respect. You’ll have genuine authority. You won’t be just
the princess
anymore and you’ll have something to do. Weren’t you the one that said you wanted to get out of your tower and contribute to the well-being of the kingdom?”

“And—and this is what you thought of?” She was ready to scream. “Don’t do this to me, Alric, I beg of you. I know I’ve been an embarrassment. I know what they say about me. You think I don’t hear them whispering
witch
under their breath? You think I don’t know what was said at the trial?”

“Arista, those people were coerced. You know that.” He glanced briefly at Hilfred, who stood beside her, holding the lost shoe.

“I’m just saying I know about it. I’m sure they complain to you all the time.” She gestured toward the closed door behind him. She did not know whom she meant by
they
and hoped he did not ask. “But I can’t help what people think. If you want, I’ll come to more events. I’ll attend the state dinners. I’ll take up needlepoint. I’ll make a damn tapestry. Something cute and inoffensive. How about a stag hunt? I don’t know how to make a tapestry, but I bet Bernice does—she knows all that crap.”

“
You’re
going to make a tapestry?”

“If that’s what it takes. I’ll be better—I will. I haven’t even put the lock on my door in the new tower. I haven’t done a thing since you were crowned, I swear. Please don’t sentence me to a life of servitude. I don’t mind being just a princess—I don’t.”

He looked at her, confused.

“I mean it. I really do, Alric. Please, don’t do this.”

He sighed, looking at her sadly. “Arista, what else can I do with you? I don’t want you living like a hermit in that tower for the rest of your life. I honestly think this is for the best. It will be good for you. You might not see it now but— don’t look at me like that! I am king and you’ll do as I tell you. I need you to do this for me. The kingdom needs you to do this.”

She could not believe what she was hearing. Arista felt tears working their way forward. She locked her jaw, squeezing her teeth together, breathing faster to stave them off. She felt feverish and a little light-headed. “And I suppose I am to be shipped off immediately. Is that why the carriages are outside?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I was hoping you would be on your way in the morning.”

“Tomorrow?” Arista felt her legs weaken, the air empty from her lungs.

“Oh, for Maribor’s sake, Arista—it’s not like I’m ordering you to marry some old coot.”

“Oh—well! I am so pleased you are looking out for me,” she said. “Who is it, then? One of King Roswort’s nephews? Dearest Maribor, Alric! Why Dunmore? Rudolf would have been misery enough, but at least I could understand an alliance with Alburn. But Dunmore? That’s just cruel. Do you hate me that much? Am I that horrible that you must marry me to some no-account duke in a backwater kingdom? Even Father wouldn’t have done that to me—why—why are you laughing? Stop laughing, you insensitive little hobgoblin!”

“I’m not marrying you off, Arista,” Alric managed to get out.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not?”

“God, no! Is that what you thought? I wouldn’t do that. I’m familiar with the kind of people you know. I’d find myself floating down the Galewyr again.”

“What, then? Julian said you were deciding my fate in there.”

“I have—I’ve officially appointed you Ambassador of Melengar.”

She stood silent, staring at him for a long moment. Without turning her head, she shifted her eyes and grabbed her shoe from Hilfred. Leaning on his shoulder, she slipped it back on.

“But Bernice said Sauly brought a list of eligible suitors,” she said tentatively, cautiously.

“Oh yes, he did,” Alric said, and chuckled. “We all had a good laugh at that.”

“We?”

“Mauvin and Fanen are here.” He hooked his thumb at the door. “They’re going with you. Fanen plans to enter the contest the church is organizing up in Ervanon. You see, it was
supposed to be this big surprise, but you ruined everything as usual.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quavering unexpectedly. She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. “Thank you.”

The front wheels of the carriage bounced in a hole, followed abruptly by the rear ones. Arista nearly struck her head on the roof and lost her concentration, which was frustrating, because she was certain she was on the verge of recalling the name of Dunmore’s Secretary of the Treasury. It started with a Bon, a Bonny, or a Bobo—no, it could not be Bobo, could it? It was something like that. All these names, all these titles, the third baron of Brodinia, the Earl of Nith—or was it the third baron of Nith and the Earl of Brodinia? Arista looked at the palm of her hand, wondering if she could write them there. If caught, it would be an embarrassment not just for herself, but for Alric, and all of Melengar as well. From now on, everything she did, every mistake, every stumble would not just hurt her, it would reflect poorly on her kingdom. She had to be perfect. The problem was she did not know how to be perfect. She wished her brother had given her more time to prepare.

Dunmore was a new kingdom, only seventy years old, an overgrown fief reclaimed from the wilderness by ambitious nobles with only passing pedigrees. It had none of the traditions or refinement found in the rest of Avryn, but it did have a plethora of mind-numbing titled offices. She was convinced King Roswort created them the way a self-conscious man might overdecorate a modest house. He certainly had more ministers than Alric, with titles twice as long and uniquely
vague, such as the Assistant Secretary of the Second Royal Avenue Inspection Quorum.
What does that even mean?
And then there was the simply unfathomable, since Dunmore was landlocked, Grandmaster of the Fleet! Nevertheless, Julian had provided her with a list and she was doing her best to memorize it, along with a tally sheet of their imports, exports, trade agreements, military treaties, and even the name of the king’s dog. She laid her head back on the velvet upholstery and sighed.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Bishop Saldur inquired from his seat directly across from her, where he sat pressing his fingers together. He stared at her with unwavering eyes that took in more than her face. She would have considered his looks rude if he had been anyone else. Saldur—or Sauly, as she always called him—had taught her the art of blowing dandelions that had gone to seed when she was five. He had shown her how to play checkers and pretended not to notice when she climbed trees or rode her pony at a gallop. For commencement on her sixteenth birthday, Sauly had personally instructed her on the Tenets of the Faith of Nyphron. He was like a grandfather. He always stared at her. She had given up wondering why.

“There’s too much to learn. I can’t keep it all straight. The bouncing doesn’t help either. It’s just that”—she flipped through the parchments on her lap, shaking her head—“I want to do a good job, but I don’t think I will.”

The old man smiled at her, his eyebrows rising in sympathy. “You’ll do fine. Besides, it’s only Dunmore.” He gave her a wink. “I think you’ll find His Majesty King Roswort an unpleasant sort of man to deal with. Dunmore has been slow to gain the virtues that the rest of civilization has learned to enjoy. Just be patient and respectful. Remember that you’ll be standing in
his
court, not Melengar, and there you are subject
to his authority. Your best ally in any discussion is silence. Learn to develop that skill. Learn to listen instead of speaking and you’ll weather many storms. Also, avoid promising anything. Give the impression you are promising, but never actually say the words. That way Alric always has room to maneuver. It is a bad practice to tie the hands of your monarch.”

“Would you like something to drink, my lady?” Bernice asked, sitting beside Arista on the cushioned bench, guarding a basket of travel treats. She sat straight, her knees together, hands clutching the basket, thumbs rubbing it gently. Bernice beamed at her, fanning deep lines from the corners of her eyes. Her round pudgy cheeks were forced too high by a smile too broad—a condescending smile, the sort displayed to a child who had scraped her knee. At times Arista wondered if the old woman was trying to
be
her mother.

“What have you got in there, dear?” Saldur asked. “Anything with a bite to it?”

“I brought a pint of brandy,” she said, and then hastily added, “in case it got cold.”

“Come to think of it, I feel a bit chilled,” Saldur said, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, pretending to shiver.

Arista raised an eyebrow. “This carriage is like an oven,” she said while pulling on the high dress collar that ran to her chin. Alric had emphasized that she needed to wear properly modest attire, as if she had made a habit of strolling about the castle in bosom-baring scarlet tavern dresses. Bernice took this edict as carte blanche to imprison Arista in antiquated costumes of heavy material. The sole exception was the dress for her meeting with the King of Dunmore. Arista wanted all the help she could get to make a good impression and decided to wear the formal reception gown that had once belonged to her mother. It was simply the most stunning dress Arista had
ever seen. When her mother had worn it, every head had turned. She had looked so impressive, so magnificent—every bit the queen.

“Old bones, my dear,” Saldur told her. “Come, Bernice, why don’t you and I share a little cup?” This brought a self-conscious smile to the old lady’s face.

Arista pulled the velvet curtain aside and looked out the window. Her carriage was in the middle of a caravan consisting of wagons and soldiers on horseback. Mauvin and Fanen were somewhere out there, but all she could see was what the window framed. They were in the kingdom of Ghent, although Ghent had no king. The Nyphron Church administered the region directly and had for several hundred years. There were few trees in this rocky land and the hills remained a dull brown, as if spring were tardy—off playing in other realms and neglecting its chores here. High above the plain a hawk circled in wide loops.

“Oh dear!” Bernice exclaimed as the carriage bounced again.
Oh dear!
was as close as Bernice ever came to cursing. Arista glanced over to see that the jostling was making the process of pouring the brandy a challenge. Sauly with the bottle, Bernice with the cup, their arms shifting up and down, struggling to meet in the middle like in some test-of-skill at a May Fair—a game that was designed to look simple but ultimately embarrassed the players. At last, Sauly managed to tip the bottle and they both cheered.

“Not a drop lost,” he said, pleased with himself. “Here’s to our new ambassador. May she do us proud.” He raised the cup, took a large mouthful, and sat back with a sigh. “Have you been to Ervanon before, my dear?”

Arista shook her head.

“I think you’ll find it spiritually uplifting. Honestly, I am surprised your father never brought you here. It is a pilgrimage
every member of the Church of Nyphron needs to make once in their life.”

Arista nodded, failing to mention her late father had not been terribly devout. He had been required to play his part in the religious services of the kingdom, but often skipped them if the fish were biting, or if the huntsmen reported spotting a stag in the river valley. Of course, there had been times when even he had sought solace. She had long wondered about his death. Why had he been in the chapel the night that miserable dwarf had stabbed him? More importantly, how had her uncle Percy known he would be there and used this knowledge to plot his death? It puzzled her until she realized he had not been there praying to Novron or Maribor—he had been talking to
her
. It had been the anniversary of the fire. The date Arista’s mother had died. He had probably visited the chapel every year and it bothered Arista that her uncle knew more about her father’s habits than she did. It also disturbed her that she had never thought to join him.