Telyn awakened at the click of her closing door, still nestled deeply in the soft green-gold coverlets. Rubbing sleepy eyes, she discovered that toiletries had been left beside the fire for her by some silent-footed maid. A deep basin of scented water steamed gently by the small fireplace grate, a stack of soft towels folded beside it.
She breathed in the sweet aroma of herbs that steeped in the basin. Remembering that the last thorough soaking her hair had received had been in the near-disastrous crossing of the stream below the bluff outpost, she made immediate use of the warm water and fragrant, soapy oil from a small clay jar. She bathed quickly and dressed again in the fawn colored kirtle and tunic, making a mental note to ask Diarmid about borrowing more clothes.
Plaiting her still-wet curls into a semblance of order, Telyn found Mithrais awaiting her in the dayroom, having completed his own bath, dressed in a soft, green tunic that echoed the color of his pale eyes rather than the deeper forest hues of his Tauron garb. His damp hair was caught again in an ornate silver clasp at the nape of his neck. He greeted her without rising from the tapestried chair, his leg stretched out before him on a small bench.
“Are you in pain this morning?” Telyn asked with concern, and Mithrais shook his head.
“It aches, but that’s to be expected. The healers warned me it would be several days before the pain subsides.” He captured her hand and kissed its palm.
The bard grinned, her cheeks rosy, and reached for the linen-wrapped bread, suddenly famished. “When should we return to your father?” she asked as she added hearty slices of cheese to the bread, setting them carefully to toast on a small ledge directly in front of the coals.
“Not until later,” Mithrais replied. He poured cups of amber cider from a small pitcher, handing one to Telyn. “I fear we must first pay our respects to Marithiel. It’s late enough that she’ll be sending someone for us if we don’t appear soon.”
The anticipated summons came just as they finished their breakfast. Mithrais called out for the person to enter as Telyn hastily swallowed the last mouthful of bread and cheese. The door opened to reveal Diarmid, who stood leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his expression one of amused tolerance.
“Good morning, Diarmid,” Mithrais greeted him, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. The steward stared at him meaningfully, his mouth twitching in an effort to suppress a smile.
“You know why I’m here,” Diarmid said pointedly, his deep voice laced with unspoken accusations.
“I can guess. What is the weather like this morning?”
“A rapidly brewing storm, I think.”
Telyn stifled a smile, covering her mouth with her hand as she realized they were talking about Marithiel and not the skies outside, which were bright and clear.
Mithrais grimaced as he got to his feet, taking a few cautious, unaided steps. He accepted the staff with thanks when the steward retrieved it from its resting place against the wall. “I’m sorry if our tardiness has made things difficult for you.”
“No more difficult than it has been of late,” Diarmid sighed, and finally smiled as he turned to leave, inclining his head at the two of them. “Lady Marithiel is in the solar. I shall tell her that your arrival is imminent.”
Mithrais took Telyn into his arms for a reassuring embrace. “Remember that the manor is now your home. However, you may wish to decide before we go how to explain your absence from court.”
“I won’t lie, but diplomatic truth doesn’t require that the details be revealed. I am a bard, after all—well-versed in storytelling,” Telyn said with an air of insolence, which made Mithrais chuckle.
“Let’s pay our respects, and be done with it,” he said grimly, offering her his arm. “It’ll be the worse for us if we keep her waiting any longer.”
* * * *
On the main floor, Mithrais turned down the corridor that branched opposite the empty great hall. An ornate wooden door, embossed with bright beaten metal in the shape of the Tree of Cerisild, squatted at the end of the hallway. Undoubtedly a relic of the manor’s first incarnation as a fortress, the door was solid, weathered with age and hung with immense metal hinges. Mithrais paused before it, inhaling deeply as if preparing to do something difficult or painful, then lifted the latch and pushed the heavy door.
The solar was brightly illuminated by the tall, arched windows which ran the entire length of the manor’s stone first floor. Rich carpets imported from the trade cities covered the flagstones, and a table that could seat a dozen or more spanned the length of the room. One end was covered with leather document pouches, parchments and inkwells, and Diarmid’s head was bent over something that the golden-haired woman at the head of the table pointed out on one of the parchments.
“We shall need more of those,” Marithiel was saying in the cold, imperial tones that could only belong to a princess. “Send someone to the marketplace to procure them today—I can only hope that the quality is acceptable. There is so little here.”
“It will be done, Lady Marithiel,” Diarmid said in a toneless, precise way that let Telyn know exactly what he was thinking. He looked up and saw them standing in the doorway, motioning them closer even as he began to leave. The two men exchanged beleaguered glances as they passed, and Telyn had to bite her lip to keep from grinning.
Mithrais reached for her hand and squeezed it as they walked forward. She nodded at him to go ahead, remaining a step behind until Marithiel acknowledged her directly, as court etiquette dictated.
Marithiel continued to read the list in her hand, ignoring their presence, and Telyn took the opportunity to study her a moment. The princess was surprisingly diminutive, but the bard was well acquainted with the force of personality that the Sildan royal family could exude when they wished, and knew that physical size had little to do with it. When Marithiel finally looked up, the ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly as they passed over Telyn in a cursory glance, and then flicked to her son, who bowed with impersonal courtesy.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Forgive me, Mithrais, if I have disturbed your...recuperation.” Her voice lingered on the last word with a hint of suggestive sarcasm, and her eyes returned briefly to Telyn. It was clear what Marithiel was implying. Telyn felt her cheeks warming as Mithrais spoke again, his voice as inflectionless as Diarmid’s had been.
“Thank you for your concern for my wellbeing, Mother. I’m sorry that I was unable to return in time to observe the rites of spring. I’m certain Gilmarion has told you that I was unavoidably delayed.”
“Yes, he has.” Marithiel rose from her chair and approached her son, raising her face to his so that he could kiss her cheek formally.
Marithiel’s tone quickly reverted to that of someone facing a great imposition as she continued, “I have little enough time to perform the daily duties I have had to assume since Gwidion’s accident. Diarmid is too busy playing nursemaid to properly oversee the house staff. You will be called upon to take some responsibilities, Mithrais.”
“I will gladly see to Father’s needs if it would help Diarmid,” Mithrais replied coolly.
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” Marithiel frowned.
“I have obligations that I must fulfill during the next few days, and then I will do what I am bid for the duration of my visit,” Mithrais said resignedly.
“Obligations to the Tauron, I presume?” Marithiel sighed in a great show of inconvenience.
“I could not ignore these obligations. I meet with the Tauron Elders this afternoon to help plan the rites celebrating the life of Aric of Cassath. He was killed by the same attacker who wounded Telyn, an initiate, and me.” Mithrais’ voice was strained with guilt and sorrow, and when his hand blindly sought Telyn’s, the bard gripped it tightly, offering him strength and comfort.
“I had no idea.” It was not precisely an apology or an acknowledgement of his grief, but Marithiel’s tone was nearly sympathetic. Nor had she missed her son seeking consolation from Telyn, and Marithiel finally spoke to her.
“Lady Bard, welcome to Cerisild.” Her voice was full of curiosity; her eyes, thinly veiled suspicion.
“I thank you for the hospitality shown me, your highness.” Telyn curtsied deeply, and rose as Marithiel gestured her acknowledgement of the reverence. She stared at Telyn appraisingly as the bard completed the formal court greeting: she touched her fingertips to her lips, over her heart, and extended her hand toward Marithiel, palm outward. A faint smile of recognition crept over her features as Marithiel touched only her fingertips to Telyn’s, a not-uncommon variation favored by members of the royal family.
“I have not been greeted that way since I left court. Proprieties are seldom observed here.” Marithiel’s lips thinned deprecatingly. “Perhaps you can remind everyone here how I should be regarded. Tell me why my brother has allowed one so young to wander, Lady Bard. He has always been fiercely protective of his personal household.”
Telyn took a breath. “I left Belthil with the King’s permission,” she said, choosing her words carefully to allow Marithiel to read as much into them as she liked without truly revealing anything. “No one could have foreseen that I would be attacked on the forest road as I made my way to Rothvori, where I was to attend the spring rites at the invitation of an old friend. Mithrais and Aric came to my aid, and saved my life.”
“The spring rites were five days ago. Surely your injuries are more recent.” Marithiel indicated the bright bruises on Telyn’s cheek, and the bard nodded.
“Yes, your highness. These happened two days ago.” She pulled away the front of her tunic slightly so that Marithiel could see the ugly edge of the sutures over her heart.
“You were attacked a second time?”
“Three times,” Mithrais informed Marithiel, covering Telyn’s hand with his own. She gratefully let him speak, knowing he could easily pick up the thread of her story.
“Why would someone be so intent on your death?” Marithiel asked. Her eyes glittered with unpleasant interest, and Telyn shook her head, meeting that gaze unflinchingly and speaking the only lie to be given voice.
“I don’t know, your highness.”
Marithiel looked at them both, her lips pursed. It was clear that she knew some information was being withheld from her.
“A dispatch was sent from Lord Riordan of Rothvori to King Amorion, advising him of the attempts on her life,” Mithrais told Marithiel blithely. “I’m certain that the King can come to the bottom of it, and take action to ensure her safety.”
“Undoubtedly.” Marithiel appeared to have reached some sort of conclusion, and said briskly, “But now you have arrived safely in our city. It is not Belthil, Lady Bard, but you will be comfortable. I would like to hear the news, and we have not had a true bard in this forsaken place in fifteen years. I look forward to hearing a real musician play. How long will you remain in Cerisild?”
Glancing at Mithrais, she answered carefully, “My performance depends upon my being able to locate instruments, for my own are being kept in Rothvori until I can return. I feel that I am but half a bard without the tools of my trade.”
“We shall do our best to locate the appropriate instruments. What do you favor?”
With an inward sigh of defeat, Telyn responded, “I prefer the harp and the small pipes, your highness.”
“When do you anticipate returning to Rothvori to collect your own?” Marithiel pressed again for a limit to her visit.
Even as Telyn opened her mouth to answer, trying to formulate a response that would satisfy Marithiel, Mithrais interjected smoothly, “It’s likely that Telyn will be in residence as long as I’m here, Mother.” Mithrais looked at Telyn, his expression tender, and she could not help but respond, the blush rising in her cheeks. “A wondrous thing occurred amidst the terrible events of the last few days. I’ve found my lifemate in the person of Telyn Songmaker.”
Telyn forgot to breathe for a moment, watching Marithiel’s reaction. The princess’s eyes flickered from her son to the bard, her expression disdainful and displeased. When she spoke again, her voice held the chill of winter.
“I see.” Those two words dropped and shattered like icicles. “We have a great deal that should be discussed privately, Mithrais. Lady Bard, leave us.”
It was a command, not a request, and clearly she expected Telyn to obey as one bound to the royal household. Mithrais stiffened at the tone directed toward Telyn, plainly offended by his mother’s refusal to acknowledge his declaration. Telyn pressed his hand firmly, letting her eyes remind him that she had not expected a warm welcome, and inclined her head to Marithiel in obedience.
“As you wish, your highness.” To Mithrais, she said softly, “I will join Lord Gwidion, as he requested.”
“I’ll come to you shortly,” Mithrais told her, kissing her hand. His eyes were smoldering with barely checked anger. Telyn curtsied to Marithiel, and then made her way to the door, imagining that she could feel Marithiel’s eyes on her back in the tense silence. As the door closed behind her, she took a deep breath. The storm was apparently about to break directly over Mithrais’ head, and Telyn was divided between relief and guilt that she had to leave him to weather it alone.
* * * *
“That was uncommonly rude, even for you, Mother.” Mithrais kept his voice carefully even, but he made certain that Marithiel knew how furious he was.
“Did you simply expect me to welcome her as if she were your bride?” Marithiel asked contemptuously.
“My father had no such reservations and has already done so.”
“Ah, yes, of course he has.” Marithiel’s lip curled. The princess sat in one of the chairs and motioned for him to join her. He did so, settling stiffly into the seat with his leg stretched out before him.
“What can you truly know about this girl in five days’ time?” Marithiel inquired archly. “She must be some kin to the Royal Bard if she is honor-bound to the household, and what I remember of him is unpleasant. He was a cold, ambitious upstart.”
“She is kin to Taliesin, and I think Telyn may agree with your opinion of him.” Mithrais did not offer any further information. “I’ve learned a great deal about her, and I look forward to learning more about her for the rest of my days. Telyn possesses the gift of heartspeaking, as well as the gifts of a true bard.”
Her eyes narrowed, and Marithiel rested her chin on long, slender fingers that glittered with the ring Gwidion had given her in token of their marriage contract.
“You surprise me,” she said, her voice disarmingly casual. “I would not have thought a soldier could be so sentimental as to believe in some mystical connection between a man and a woman.”
“Nor did I believe it, until I met Telyn,” Mithrais admitted.
“Love is a luxury for those of us born into a royal house, Mithrais, a luxury which cannot be valued over the greater good of the realm.”
Mithrais sighed, seeing where this conversation was leading. “I’m the second son of the Lord of Cerisild, Mother, not an heir to the kingdom. The royal house will survive without me entering a political marriage. We’ve had this discussion before.”
“Indeed we have.” Marithiel raised one elegant eyebrow and sat back. “Gilmarion’s search for a bride has been somewhat more limited than we had hoped, but for one very promising match. Negotiation for the hand of Lord Belenus’ daughter is well under way. You do know who Lord Belenus is?”
“Of course.” Mithrais did know the name. Belenus held the lands outside the eastern Wood; rich and fertile plains which produced most of the grain that Cerisild imported. “I assume that Belenus’ lands are to be yielded as her dowry?”
“A goodly part of it-–enough to supply the grain we normally import from Belenus, which encompasses the major expense of our treasury.”
“It would be an advantageous match for Gilmarion.” Mithrais agreed, and Marithiel nodded in assent, looking irritable.
“I would like to see Gilmarion married before the harvest, but the girl is quite foolish, and insists that she will not be parted from her twin. The other daughter will inherit the second half of her father’s holdings.”
“And you hoped that I’d agree to a marriage contract in order to settle the matter.” Mithrais shook his head with a thin smile.
Marithiel appeared exasperated. “It would provide us with a valuable resource and additional income, and you with lands of your own to oversee.” Her voice presented him with this as if it were a gift. “Do you not see how this would benefit everyone?”
“Perhaps in terms of finance, but there’s no urgency for Gilmarion to marry Belenus’ daughter simply to inflate the treasury.” Mithrais returned Marithiel’s gaze directly. “As for myself, I have no desire to leave the Wood.”
“Gilmarion and I have been looking carefully at expenses, and there is one redundancy which could be eliminated immediately.” Marithiel paused meaningfully, and Mithrais’ eyes widened in disbelief.
“You can’t be speaking of the Tauron.”
“We have countless retainers in the garrison with little to do. They could patrol the roads just as easily as the Tauron.” Marithiel made a dismissive gesture, and said mockingly, “We have also had this discussion before.”
“Then lower the number of retainers instead. You know that isn’t the Tauron’s only function,” Mithrais countered hotly. “We can’t abandon the Gwaith’orn, especially not now. You don’t realize the gravity of the covenant...”
“They are only trees,” Marithiel interrupted with impatience. “We are speaking of the ability to feed the city this winter, and possibly the next, and the next. Even you can see the importance of that, Mithrais.”
“The stipend paid to fifty Tauron wardens doesn’t equal a quarter of what we import in grain,” Mithrais said derisively. “The Gwaith’orn are not just trees. They are sentient, living creatures, with a will of their own. You could judge this for yourself, Mother, if you’d only allow me to show you.”
“I have no desire to talk to trees, unless they perhaps can tell me how to increase revenues,” she sneered.
“Have you or Gilmarion even discussed this with Father?” Mithrais asked, knowing the answer was negative. “He knows why the Tauron can’t be dissolved. He’d never allow it.”
“Gwidion cares little for day to day trivialities such as the treasury,” Marithiel said acidly. “He has become distracted and distanced from what is important.”
“I think you’ll soon find that isn’t the case.” Mithrais stood, leaning heavily on his staff and preparing to leave.
“Think carefully, Mithrais, before you dismiss this marriage,” Marithiel warned, standing before her chair. She extracted another document from a leather case and tossed it onto the table. “It could prevent this item from being carried out.”
The document lay on the table between them, and Mithrais did not want to touch it. For several seconds, he and Marithiel simply stared at each other, eyes locked in defiant challenge. He finally picked it up and read it, his disbelief growing with every word written on the parchment. It was an order of dissolution for the Tauron, stating that the stipends they received from the Lord of Cerisild would end at midsummer.
“Father will never sign this,” Mithrais said, his voice dangerously low.
“He does not have to.” Marithiel’s eyes glinted. “Gilmarion and I have had the authority for years now to make amendments to the treasury of our own volition. This is only a copy. The original is signed and sealed, ready to be delivered to the Tauron Elders.”
Mithrais stared at her, unwilling to believe what he was hearing. “Are you saying that the continued existence of the Tauron Order depends upon my agreement to enter this marriage contract?”
“I am saying that we will do what we must to ensure the well-being of Cerisild.” Marithiel watched him as she moved closer, like a cat stalking a wounded bird. “You should be willing to do the same if you truly care about the Wood so very much.”
“This is extortion, Mother,” Mithrais said hoarsely.
“No—it is duty!” Marithiel hissed, her eyes filled with tears of anger. “At last, you understand me, Mithrais. Can you see now why such bitterness has grown in my heart?” She wiped away a tear that escaped with an impatient hand. “I ask less of you than was asked of me. Your marriage would not be a matter of state. You could keep the bard as a mistress, and still have your lifemate.” The last word was infused with sarcasm.
“Your marriage of state has never prevented you from flaunting lovers before your husband whenever the chance arises,” Mithrais retorted coldly. “Tell me, who had the honor of being your bedmate for the spring rites this year?”
Marithiel went very still, and Mithrais felt a fleeting prickle of shame that was quickly burnt to ash in the heat of his outrage. He rarely let anger control his tongue, but with Marithiel, his better sense lost the battle time and time again. Too often now, this was the way things were between them.
“That was unworthy of you, Mithrais.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes were as hard as diamonds, and Mithrais bowed stiffly in acquiescence.
“I apologize, madam.”
Marithiel drew herself up haughtily. “Your continued refusal to shoulder the responsibilities of your rank disappoints me.”
“Your approval is no longer something I seek.” Mithrais turned without offering her the customary bow, the offensive documents still clenched in his hand. The door slammed shut behind him with a reverberating boom, echoing down the corridor.
“I take it that Mother has had her audience with you.”
Gilmarion was leaning against the wall, his usual ironic smile subdued as he approached the end of the hallway and glanced at the closed door.
“I trust that you know it wasn’t my idea.” Gilmarion had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Thrais.”
The childhood nickname hung between them; it was Gilmarion’s attempt to let his brother know that he was sincere. Mithrais nodded, accepting the apology.
“It’s not done yet. I assure you that Father will not allow the dissolution to happen.” He showed him the documents he held.
Gilmarion stiffened a bit in discomfort. “There’s no need to concern him with a matter of the treasury. It’s been my responsibility for some time now.”
“He is still Lord of Cerisild!” Mithrais turned accusing eyes to his elder brother. “When I was last here, you still spoke to him and kept him apprised of all events within the borders of the Wood. Why wasn’t he consulted in this?”
Gilmarion glanced at the door again, as if he were worried that Marithiel was listening. “I have assumed the majority of Father’s duties because I must. It’s my place as his heir to do so when he cannot shoulder the responsibilities of his rank.”
Mithrais froze, hearing the echo of their mother’s words on his Gilmarion’s lips. “You’ve done so at Marithiel’s urging,” he said slowly.
“Because I must,” Gilmarion repeated stubbornly, not meeting his brother’s eyes. “As I said before, you make your own trouble, Mithrais. Would a contracted marriage be such an intolerable price to pay if it ensured that the Tauron remain to serve the Gwaith’orn?”
“Given the example of the contracted marriage between our mother and father, can you be so convinced?” Mithrais shot back.
Gilmarion sighed, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “In all honesty, I don’t expect to marry Belenus’ daughter. I have already begun to consider...” His brother paused as if choosing his words carefully. “...alternative solutions.”
“Tell me what’s happening, Gil,” Mithrais asked quietly, perplexed at the expression on Gilmarion’s face. “I know something is amiss.”
Gilmarion shrugged impassively. “She’s expecting me, so I’d best attend her.” He stopped with his hand on the ancient wood, and looked back at Mithrais. “Do what you must in regard to the Tauron. I would expect no less. You’ve always been stronger of will than I, little brother.”
Gilmarion pushed the door open and disappeared behind it. The portal closed noiselessly and left Mithrais alone in the corridor, feeling that another door had been shut between them, one that could not be opened as easily.