Trevn
Beal dressed Trevn for his ageday ball in a ruffly blue-and-gold tunic Mother had commissioned. The only thing Trevn liked about it was that it bore his insignia of the hunting horn, which symbolized high and noble pursuits. Both Father and Mother hated it, as it had nothing to do with any of the gods.
Beal started on Trevn’s hair. Once Trevn took his priestly vows, he would start wearing his hair in a single priest’s lock. Tonight Beal was braiding it into fifteen cornrows.
Hinck and Cadoc stood watching the scene, no doubt with great amusement. Trevn did not find his situation at all humorous.
“It is an ensemble befitting a prince,” Beal wheezed.
Trevn glared at the ruffles in the mirror. “Does Mother think I’m female? Why does she do this to me?”
“Torture is what mothers do best.” Hinck gestured to his own sleek maroon-and-black ensemble. “Will this do? Or should I find something with frills?”
“You can shut up.”
Hinck blinked, one eye more closed than the other, but nowhere close to a successful wink. “Can but won’t. So tonight we hunt you a wife?”
Trevn heaved a deep sigh. “That and ten concubines.”
“Ten? So unfair. How old is Miss Mielle, anyway?”
“Sixteen. One month too old to match in fives.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Hinck said.
Trevn wanted none of this, especially the ruffles. “We should have waited for Wilek to return.” Beal tugged too hard and Trevn winced. “He was going to help convince Father to have my ageday at sea. What’s the point of being a sâr if you cannot have what you want?”
“So you can give me what I want,” Hinck said, his smile larger than normal. “I’ll take your ten concubines, Your Generousness.”
Cadoc snorted. “Well, that would be generous.”
“Oh, no,” Trevn said. “If I have to suffer, so do you.”
When they finally approached the great hall, Mother’s onesent Arkil was standing outside the doors, waiting. “The rosâr has already arrived,” he whispered.
“Good,” Trevn said. The shorter this event, the better. “May as well announce me.”
The guards opened the doors and revealed a great hall transformed. Most of the tables had been removed to create space for dancing. The room was a wash of blue and pink dresses but for a few matronly types dressed in dark colors. Men stood in clusters by the outer walls where tables laden with food ran lengthwise. Everyone was standing, except the king, who sat on his throne, which had been moved from the Throne Room to the dais for this special day. Trevn’s mother stood on Father’s left. An empty chair to the right of the throne awaited Trevn. To the far right Janek stood behind the cup table, which held six golden cups: five small tumblers and a large goblet.
Five Woes of misery; Wilek should be cupbearer. The herald blew Trevn’s call on the trumpet, which twisted Trevn’s stomach. The song ended and the herald announced in a loud voice, “His Royal Highness, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Third Arm of Armania.”
All faces turned his way. The crowd bowed like a slow, rolling wave as Trevn walked past. He reached the dais much sooner than expected, climbed the steps, and knelt.
His mother sang a song, which wasn’t half bad, after which Pontiff Rogedoth must have read an entire chapter from the Book of Rôb, because Trevn’s knees went numb while he waited. Then came the part everyone knew by heart. The cupping.
“To become a man,” Father said in a booming voice, “a boy requires faith in the gods, who give us life.”
Janek lifted the first tumbler and poured the contents—wine—into the goblet.
“To become a man,” Father said, “a boy requires health, without which he will die.”
Janek poured the second cup.
“To become a man, a boy requires wisdom, without which he will become a fool.”
In went the third splash of wine.
“To become a man, a boy requires love, without which he will have no heir.”
Janek dumped the cup of love.
“To become a man, a boy requires prosperity. If he honors the gods, is blessed with good health, wisdom, and heirs, he will indeed find it.”
Janek poured the final cup, then lifted the goblet in both hands.
“Cupbearer, bring forth the cup,” Father said.
Janek carried the cup around the table and handed it to Trevn. The gold felt cool in his sweaty grip; the dark liquid trembled.
“Drink, boy, from the cup of manhood,” Father said.
Trevn drank very slowly, breaking tradition. Lore said the faster one drank, the longer he would live. A foolish superstition that Trevn intended to prove false by living a hundred years. Behind him, whispers rose from the assembly, and he caught his mother’s glare. He finished and handed the cup to Janek, who carried it back to the cup table.
Father stood and set his hand on Trevn’s head. “I dub thee, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Curious. You are now a man.”
Curious? That was his title? Fitting, he supposed. As per the ceremony, Trevn repeated, “I am now a man.”
The crowd burst into cheers. It might be an archaic ritual to provide nobility with yet another reason to celebrate, but Trevn’s throat tightened and it took effort to maintain an indifferent expression.
He then claimed the seat beside his father and received his showering, in which the guests paraded past with gifts. He received pendants, brooches, rings, buckles, daggers, swords, capes, tunics, boots, jewelry for his future wives and concubines, several dozen amphoras of wine, mirrors, three slaves—two female, one male—four horses, ornate rugs, a handful of perfumes and ointments, lampstands, cups and bowls, incense holders, crowns, tapestries, and paintings.
His mother gave him a set of wedding cuffs.
His father gave him his own signet ring and a seat on the Wisean Council, which Trevn intended to avoid as long as possible.
Janek gave him a stallion, a potted tree, and said in his ear, “Borrow Pia and Mattenelle anytime you like.”
Miss Mielle gave him a shard of roof tile on a cord. “From yesterday,” she whispered, fingering a similar tile at her neck that ran beneath the bodice of her gown. “I kept the other half.”
Lady Zeroah gave him a wooden map tube and fifty sheets of map paper.
Father Tomek gave him a prayer stone that was said to have belonged to the prophet Zyon Ottee.
Then it was time to dance.
The band began a traditional somaro. Trevn led his mother to the center of the hall. She wore a hideous purple-and-green gown that made her look like a bunch of grapes. She was a great deal shorter than he was, and he had to release her for the twirls, as her girth did not easily fit under his arm. She looked happy, though. She wouldn’t for long.
Tradition stated that Trevn would dance the first half of the first song with his mother, then pass her off to the king and choose his own partner. Mother had nagged him all morning about the only three acceptable choices for his first dance.
But he had already chosen.
When the strings and flutes stopped playing and only the percussion remained, Trevn led his mother to the king, who was standing at the foot of the dais stairs. He handed her off, pretended not to see her mouth the name Brisa Hadar, then turned to face the crowd.
In the circle of pink and blue dresses, Miss Mielle was easy to spot. She was wearing green, standing beside Lady Zeroah, who wore silver.
A deep breath and Trevn crossed the room. The percussion continued, seeming in time with his steps and rattling nerves. He stopped before Miss Mielle and bowed. She curtsied. He extended his hand.
People started to whisper.
Her hand slid into his and he pulled her to the center of the room. The flutes and strings burst into song, and they danced. Trevn kept his eyes on Miss Mielle’s, not wanting to see his mother or father or anyone else.
“You’re nervous,” she said.
Was it that obvious? “So are you.”
“Everyone is staring. How do you ever get used to it?”
“I ignore them. You look very pretty tonight.”
“As do your ruffles.” She smirked.
Sands, he liked her more and more each day.
The song ended before he was ready to let go. He returned Miss Mielle to Lady Zeroah’s side and suddenly felt awkward, standing in the center of the circle alone.
“Sâr Trevn.”
His mother was walking toward him, dragging his second cousins Brisa and Trista by the arms. A fake smile contrasted the twin daggers of her eyes. She released the cousins and grabbed his chin—digging in her fingernails as she kissed his forehead. “Greet your cousins.”
Let the drudgery begin. Trevn bowed to the girls. “Good evening, cousins.”
“Are you going to marry us both?” Trista, at ten, wrinkled her nose as if marrying anyone was disgusting.
“No, Lady Trista, I—”
“The sâr is merely looking tonight,” Mother said. “But he does plan to marry one woman. For now.”
Trevn shrank a little and sent a pleading look to Hinck, who was smirking over by the food table.
“I’m going to marry my father,” Trista said.
“Forgive my sister, Your Highness,” Brisa said with a small curtsy. The elder of the Duke of Odarka’s daughters was but four months Trevn’s junior and more intense than his mother. “Trista is but a child. She has an unfortunate habit of speaking her mind.”
“So have I,” Trevn said to Trista, then leaned down and whispered in the little girl’s ear. “I prefer a wife closer to my age, but let’s allow your sister to think I’m picking you, just for fun.”
Trista brightened at this.
“Would you dance with me, Lady Trista?” he asked in his full voice.
Trista curtsied. “Yes, I will, Sâr Trevn.”
He offered his arm and she nearly tackled him, giggling all the while. He led her to the middle of the room, then told the band, “A rengia, please.” Rengias were the fastest type of dance, and Trevn felt his young partner up to the task.
The band set upon the lively tune. Trevn and Trista stomped, twirled, and laughed. Thankfully some other couples joined in the dancing, including Hinck, the bootlicker, who was dancing with Brisa. These two girls were Father Tomek’s granddaughters, though only Trista seemed to have been blessed with the man’s easygoing nature.
When the song ended, Trevn caught sight of Shemme, Cook Hara’s daughter, wearing pink. She was the skinniest girl he had ever seen—an oddity when she stood beside her overweight mother. Trevn had knocked her over plenty of times on his runs through the castle. He owed her. She would be his next dance.
He approached and said, “Good evening, Miss Shemme.”
Her eyes bulged and she backed up a step, knocking into a girl in blue. “I’m sorry,” she told the girl, falling into a bony curtsy at the same time. “Good evening, Your Highness.”
“Will you dance?” he asked.
“It’s my duty to obey, Your Highness.”
He frowned. “But do you want to?”
“May Athos deal with me, be it ever so severely, but I have pledged my heart to another. To become your concubine would dishonor him.”
Trevn’s cheeks burned. Curse his mother’s ridiculous invitations. “I ask but for one dance, Miss Shemme. If you would rather not, I understand.”
“No, please. My mother would be so happy if I danced with you.”
“Very well.” Perhaps next time Trevn ran through the kitchen, he would knock down Cook Hara.
The current song was a nevett, a rather upbeat tune that required little touching. This was good, as Shemme had no coordination and managed to kick him twice and step on his heel.
Hinck joined them with a girl Trevn had never seen before—a much more graceful dancer than Shemme. When the song ended, Trevn thanked Shemme and started toward Hinck, but his mother grabbed his arm and yanked him aside.
“Poorly done, Trevn. I’m so desperately embarrassed.”
“What? What did I do?” Besides totally defy her.
“You made a mockery of yourself, dancing the first with an honor maiden. Then you slighted Lady Brisa twice by dancing with her little sister, then with a kitchen maid.”
“I didn’t mean to slight anyone. You said Trista was one of your top choices.”
She raised both eyebrows.
“I’m not going to marry either of them.” So what did it matter if he had a little fun?
“Why wouldn’t you marry them?” Mother hissed. “They’re Hadars! Embarrass me again, and I’ll see you chained in your room till you marry and give me a grandson.”
Of all the ridiculous . . . “I’m a man now, Mother. You no longer decide for me.”
Her time to control him had come to an end. “Let’s ask Father right now.”
She squeezed his arm, held him there. “Gods and kings cannot be everywhere, so mothers were created to protect their children from disaster. That’s all I’m trying to do, Trevn.”
He gritted his teeth, but accepted her words as a temporary peace offering. “Fine. Who would you like me to dance with next?”
Having gotten his goodwill, she smiled. “Lady Brisa, if she’ll have you. Jeanon Yohthehreth is the next highest in rank. Then Nolli Jervaid—she’s Wisean Jervaid’s second-eldest girl. Very pretty. Then Windelle Veralla.”
“Rayim Veralla’s daughter?” The man who had caught him kissing Miss Mielle?
“She is the lowest of those I would approve as your wife. Her parents are nobly born, and the captain is highly decorated and respected. Dance with every girl in blue before dancing with those in pink. Understand? You should also ask Lady Zeroah to dance before any of the potential concubines. You would do well to steal her from your brother.”
Trevn scowled. “That will never happen, Mother.” Before she could reply, he approached Brisa. They managed to dance a stiff corroet and have a stiffer conversation. He then worked his way down his mother’s list. Jeanon Yohthehreth was clumsy and pimpled and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Nolli Jervaid was nearly as short as little Trista—he stepped on her feet three times. Since he promised Captain Veralla—who was on guard over by the door—never to look on his daughter, he tried to dance with Miss Windelle while keeping his gaze elsewhere.
He tried several times to find Miss Mielle in the room, and while he saw Lady Zeroah and Princess Nabelle conversing with his devious mother, Miss Mielle seemed to have vanished.