Matwyck experienced a certain sentimental regret when Tirinella passed away: food lost some of its piquancy, and he found himself musing over the shortness of life and the preciousness of each moment. Occasionally he paused over memories of their years together. He attended all the tragedies at the Aqueduct or Peacock to sound the depths of his sorrow.
His grief did not last long, however, which was fortunate, because in the past weeks the realm had been beset by troubles. Mysterious fires repeatedly broke out in scattered places around Weirandale. The Lord Regent received reports of an inferno in the heart of Barston that destroyed whole sections of the city, a large blaze in Prairyvale that scorched league upon league of grazing land, and even a fire inside the Abbey of the Waters on Nargis Mountain. Was it lightning? Carelessness? Arson? No sooner had the populace and his soldiers succeeded in extinguishing one blaze than another would begin to flare up far away.
Curiously, rains materialized each time before the destruction grew to catastrophic proportions. But the unexplained fires and the out-of-season rains unsettled his already-restive citizens, forcing him to make trips out of the capital to survey the damage, comfort the afflicted, and spend his dwindling treasure on relief.
On his return trip from such a tiring visit in Vittorine, listening to the depressing rain patter on his coach while it lurched its way down the muddy Royal Highway, sitting alone and bored, Matwyck came to a decision—he would marry again. His pride recoiled at the thought of mistresses, bed warmers, and the like; besides, he wanted a life partner.
Tirinella’s status was as high as I could reach as a young man. Now, however, I am in a completely different position. I will have my pick of the most highborn women in Weirandale, and I will choose more wisely a second time.
This woman must be ambitious, with none of that tedious scrupulousness that had forced him to hide his projects from Tirinella. A true helpmate who could accompany him and assist him in his work. Beautiful, of course. Every strand on her head must gleam amber; no half-brown wife could be suitable for the Lord Regent. Fertile too, because Matwyck realized that he would like to have more children. However, because he was loyal to a fault, he would insist that his second wife respect Marcot’s claims as firstborn.
But who was worthy of being his bride? Not a foreign claimant. No, he found foreigners repellent. A duchess or duchette, then. Duchess Pattengale had been widowed these many years, but she was much too ancient either for his lust or for children. No one else immediately came to mind. He would have to review the contenders: the realm’s most eligible women must be put on display without realizing he was choosing amongst them.
A party? I’ll host a celebration of Marcot’s homecoming. That’s the perfect occasion. Marcot’s ship is due back from the Eastern Duchies; two weeks should give my chamberlain time to prepare a banquet and all the women time to choose their gowns.
A gust of wind drove rain against the side of the carriage. Matwyck leaned against the upholstery, pulling his fur blanket closer, pleased with his own clever decisiveness.
Now he could look forward both to seeing his son and to this party. Marcot had dallied long in the Eastern Duchies, which perplexed his father, as those backwater provinces held so little of interest. Actually, Matwyck had expected the boy home moons ago, especially after he’d sent the tidings of Tirinella’s death.
A truly dutiful son would have rushed home to his father’s side to assuage his grief and help carry his burdens.
When Matwyck met the Sea Wave, the young man who disembarked looked more mature than when he’d left Cascada nearly a year previously. He walked more firmly and held himself straight. His father felt a flush of pride at the man his son had become, but also a momentary nostalgia for the child left behind.
Shaking hands, he noted his son’s eyes still resembled Tirinella’s, which gave Matwyck a minor pang.
“Welcome home, my son,” he said with quiet dignity, determined not to show that his prolonged absence had rankled.
In the carriage to the palace, they deliberately did not discuss their recent bereavement.
“Well, Father, how are conditions in Cascada?” asked his son.
“The city has so far been spared,” said Matwyck, “though there has been a rash of fires in the countryside.”
“Fires? Really. Do you know the forest called Anders Wood, near Duke Naven’s manor?” Marcot asked. “There was a terrible forest fire a few weeks before I left. No one could guess how it could have started, and the place is too remote for fire brigades to combat it. I’ve ridden through that forest—such magnificent timber!—what a terrible loss.”
“Did Naven lose it all?” Matwyck found these strange fires distressing, but he wouldn’t mind if one of his least-favorite dukes suffered.
“No. It was the strangest thing. The fire had consumed about a third of the wood and looked hungry enough to finish the job—we sat our horses watching in despair—when a sudden storm appeared and poured rain down in buckets. Saved the rest of the forest and the surrounding villages.”
That evening, over a private dinner served in their quarters, Matwyck reassured Marcot that the occasional flares of unrest among the people—the mobbing of a tax bureau, a painting on a city building shouting “Where is Cerúlia?”—were nothing to worry about. Matwyck had formed a special cadre of soldiers, loyal to him, to keep the palace safe. If Marcot left the palace, his father wished him to be accompanied by a squad of guards in red sashes.
At the end of the meal, Marcot pushed away his plate and said, “Father, there is something important I’d like to discuss with you.”
Matwyck hid an indulgent smile at his son’s serious tone by taking another sip of wine.
“If the matter is important to you, it is important to me. Pray continue.”
Marcot took a deep breath. “In Androvale I met a young woman. A wonderful woman. I should tell you straightaway that she is not of noble birth, and her family—while more than respectable—is neither wealthy nor influential.” The last words of his obviously rehearsed speech came out in a rush: “Nevertheless, I intend to marry her.”
Matwyck felt his temper rising as these sentences continued, but he mastered himself. “Tell me more about her,” he replied with studied neutrality.
So Marcot told his father about this Percia—her grace and laughter, her dancing skills and her dancing school, her mother and brother, and their humble cottage in Wyndton. Matwyck kept a benign smile on his face, but inside he fumed.
When Marcot ran out of words to describe his infatuation with this village wench, Matwyck chose his response with care. He had seen the depth of Marcot’s feelings play over his features, and he knew how stubborn the young man could be if he encountered opposition.
“Marcot, you think of me as an old man. But I remember feeling just as you do now when I first met your mother. The first flush of infatuation! Oh, how warming, how intoxicating!” Matwyck jerked his left hand; he’d been about to clasp it on his heart but decided midgesture that this would look too theatrical.
“You know I would be lying if I said I was overjoyed about this match. And it is not, my son (despite what you may believe) because I covet riches or position. No, all I want is for you to be happy—really, truly happy—in your marriage.”
Matwyck took another sip of wine to give him a chance to negotiate this thicket. Marcot’s face had frozen into immobility.
“I will speak to you man to man,” Matwyck continued. “Choosing a wife is one of the most important decisions you will make. You can’t make it hastily, or while you grieve from the loss of your mother.”
“I know my own feelings,” said Marcot, staring at the table linens. “And I met Percia before Mother died.”
Matwyck pressed a bit harder. “Marcot, it is because I want you to be content that I am going to speak frankly to you. I fell in love with your mother; I knew just the passion and urgency that you describe. But you know that as it turned out, she and I were poorly suited to one another. I will not speak ill of your mother; no doubt the problems in our union were all my fault. But I would not have you make the same mistake I made.”
Marcot’s jaw tightened during Matwyck’s last speech.
“Father, since you yourself made a match of commoner with nobility, you have no standing to criticize my choice!” His voice grew louder. “I will marry her with or without your permission. I will marry her even if you disown me, even if you disinherit me. We will go live with Duke Favian and Duchess Gahoa of Maritima. I’m certain they will welcome us.”
“Son, have I said anything that preposterous? Have I made any threats?” Matwyck rubbed his eyebrow and was distressed to discover that the boy’s outburst had made him perspire. “During your voyage you worked yourself up to imagine such threats, did you not? And practiced the role of stalwart suitor, resisting the pressure of a dictatorial father, just as in a play.”
Matwyck steepled his hands and lightly tapped them together. “No. All I ask—and it is a little thing—is that you wait. That you wait until more time has passed since your beloved mother’s death. You wait until you can be sure how well suited you two may be to one another. You test yourself, and you test your intended. If, while you are waiting, she runs off with the village dandy, you will have saved yourself and the realm a deal of grief.”
As the last sentence escaped his lips, Matwyck knew these words were a mistake.
“Percia is not running off with anyone!” Marcot banged the table with his fist, making the cutlery bounce.
Improvising quickly, Matwyck said, “There! You passed the first test! Such fervent faith in your beloved. Speaks so well of you.”
But he already had in his possession the key lever to influence the headstrong idiot; he just had to use it adroitly. Matwyck let a pause grow. Then he said, softly, “But Marcot, if your mother were here, what would she say? Might she not also counsel you to wait?”
Marcot appeared to consult his heart and then reluctantly nodded. “How long would you put Percia and me to this ‘test’?”
Matwyck smiled inwardly; he recognized he had the boy on the hook. He poured them both more wine.
“What do you think would be reasonable?”
“Until midsummer?” Marcot proposed.
“How about a year? If in a year you are still set on this match, I will welcome Percia of Wyndton with open arms. Wouldn’t you like to see her in a gown of silk made by the palace dressmakers? Wouldn’t your girl and her family be happier knowing that you had your only parent’s openhearted blessing? A glorious early spring wedding.”
“If I agree to this year, you promise to bless the wedding?”
Matwyck held out his hand for a handshake. “My oath on the Waters.”