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Far up the Oparee Stream, above Lake Almis, there was a low cascade where the jumbled, thrusting boulders spun the water into a fine, rushing lace. More than three dozen waterfalls adorned the Shikander Valley, from the dizzying drop of Adhik Falls to tiny rapids barely worthy of the name. But this was one of the prettiest, as well as the most remote. Under the looming shade of the deodar trees and the clinging vines, a soft lawn of clover and creeping phlox lay like a pillow, almost tipping into the churning turquoise pool.
On a red-checked cloth, Lady Rada Kaur sat with Sir Walter Davies, and their woven basket of cold meats and cheese, and their bottle of southern rice wine. Rada kept trying to press the wine on Walter, but he was much more interested in talking than drinking. He usually was, at least with people he knew well. And while that might be a virtue in the abstract sense, he was once again leaving Rada feeling frustrated and stymied. He’d just spent five minutes in a monologue about Jueju quatrains in the Shangian style.
“Though if we’re talking about poetry,” he said, settling back with his chiseled jaw resting on a rough palm, “then you have to admit Adler is the best.”
“Oh, naturally,” she said, finally paying attention again. Rada knew a number of languages, and she’d started learning Odelandic so she could read the Master’s poetry in his native tongue. She had been hoping Walter would mention Adler, in fact. “His work is so romantic, don’t you think?”
“Of course!”
“There’s this one poem of his that I was reading recently.” In a quavering voice, she recited:
The snows of Spring set off the buds
Of cherry trees about to bloom
No tracks of boots on garden trails
I wait alone within my room
“That’s nice,” he said, nodding. “You rendered that really well into Myrcian.” And for a moment, she felt a connection there—like he might finally be seeing her for who she was, and seeing what she felt for him. But then he looked away, toward the waterfall, and said, “Of course, we can’t forget Adler’s plays. Those are his real masterpieces. The Tragedy of King Otto, for example. Can you think of a better illustration of the dangers of absolute power, both in the political and personal spheres? My old commander, Sir Alfred Estnor, was the one who first pointed that out to me.”
“Um...yes. The political sphere. Of course,” sighed Rada. Then he launched into another discursion, this time on the character of the doomed, titular king, which also brought back strong memories of his friend, Sir Alfred, who had died two years before in the siege of Leornian. Walter had barely survived the siege himself, and it had taken him three months of hiding and struggling to make his way to safety in Briddobad to rejoin the Myrcian court in exile.
Having survived her own share of battles, Rada wanted to distract him from these sad memories, and hopefully, back to herself. To that end, she turned the thick gold ring on her right hand, so she could press the opal to her thumb. With a few half-whispered words, she started a slow, gentle breeze from the east, carrying in the scent of the lilacs and honeysuckles up the hill, along with the deeper, cooler smell of the vast old cedars. And just flitting at the edges of perception, the sandalwood incense from the shrines and temples in the city.
Walter’s eyes lit up, and he fell quiet for a second, before taking in a deep breath and saying, “Now there. That’s the smell of Briddobad, isn’t it?” He smiled. “As much as I miss Myrcia, I really do love it here. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, scooting slightly closer on the checked blanket.
Unfortunately, with the shift in wind away from the direction of the falls, sounds also came through the woods to them. Low gasping and grunting under the trees and a flat, wet smacking sound. And now and again, words, too: “Oh, gods, yes.”
And, “Earstien, right there!”
And, “You feel amazing!”
And, “Harder, harder!”
Walter caught Rada’s eyes for half a second and she could see his long, stubbly cheeks grow red. Her own face burned, too, and she looked away. An awkward minute passed, and just as he tried to start the conversation again, there was a gasp and a sharp, strangled cry from the woods. And then some shuffling noises, and the same two voices, now slightly breathless: “That...that was incredible.”
“Yes, I know. And thank you for remembering to pull out, but can you fetch me a handkerchief or something? Thank you. Oh, holy Finster. It’s running into my shoe.”
There was really nothing more Rada and Walter could say now, and half a minute later, two other people wandered down the hill. One was a big Sahasran fellow, with shining dark eyes and a long black braid down his back. He laced up his trousers as he walked and whistled a fashionable new Annenstruker dance song. His name was Lord Anish Ganda, and he was the young heir of some minor official in Roshan. He had come to the northern hill station of Briddobad “for his health,” whatever that might mean.
The other person was a slim woman with pale, creamy skin, sharp cheekbones, and angry blue eyes. Her dark hair fell in thick, rich curtains over the wrinkled lace collar of her green riding dress. She was trying to adjust her skirt, shifting it here and there and walking with a wide, awkward gait. As she reached the lawn of flowers where Walter and Rada waited, Lord Anish caught up with her, reached down, and smacked her backside. She turned, fists clenched, and gave him a look of righteous, imperial disdain. It was an expression she came by honestly, because she was Her Royal Highness Princess Elwyn of the exiled House of Sigor.
“Try to do something useful,” she snapped at her companion, “and go get our horses, will you?”
Lord Anish went up the path from the lawn, and Walter ran to help him fetch their mounts, leaving Rada alone with the princess.
“So...did you have fun?” Rada ventured.
“Very nearly. I think I’m going to end it with Anish tonight, though. He doesn’t seem to understand anything.” Elwyn threw up her hands and paced around the lawn. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Rada, who really didn’t.
The princess took a deep breath, puffing out her thin chest. “Enough about me.” In a lower voice, “How are things with Walter? Did you get him to kiss you yet?”
“Um...no, ma’am.”
Elwyn came over and put a hand on Rada’s arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen. At least it will if it’s meant to. And if it’s not,” she laughed, “then he doesn’t know what he’s missing. Too bad for him!”
Rada took the princess’s hand and squeezed it for a moment before letting go. “Thank you.”
Walter and Anish rode up with the horses, and after they had packed away the blankets and the hampers, they all mounted, and the little party headed south along Oparee Road, beside the shore of Lake Almis and toward the city. The hillside was steep here, and even though it was nearly noon, it was dark, as the big cedars and white pines spread over the trail, where grass grew and little yellow flowers bloomed. The road was deserted now, because no one came out this way until the blistering months of late summer, when everyone wanted a cool splash in the icy mountain stream. So Rada’s little group rode alone through the woods for a few minutes, until they approached the outlying shrines of the city.
Earlier that morning, Walter had asked politely about these shrines, and she had done her best to explain how they were dedicated to the spirits of the lake and the forest. But she felt like a fraud whenever the Myrcians asked her questions about local culture. Even though she had been born here in Briddobad, she wasn’t really much of a Sahasran. She had been raised in her mother’s country, Loshadnarod, and like all the people in that country, belonged to the Ivich faith. So even though she believed in Earstien like Walter and Elwyn, they seemed to forget it sometimes.
The young men talked of horses and carriages as they rode, and the women drew ahead of them on the path. “Maybe you need to be a bit more direct,” said Elwyn. “With Walter, I mean.”
“Perhaps,” said Rada. She knew what the princess meant by being “direct,” and she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Elwyn was direct, but she didn’t seem any happier for it.
They came around the shoulder of the hill and saw the Shikander Valley open up before them. To their left, the old city of Briddobad rose, in jumbled, clashing steps of purple and blue and vivid red, with the gilded tiles of the Vidhi Temple capping it all. Peasants and peddlers made their way up the long switchbacks to the market. Monks in red and black robes shuffled down past them, hands out for alms. Curry and incense mingled here with the other classic smells of a marketplace: soot and grime and dung, along with decaying fruit.
Rada and her party did not go up to the old town, however. They turned right on Madyan Road, heading down the valley around Chamalee Hill, where the wealthier nobles and merchants all lived. The city here had the look of a boxed forest from a distance, because every one of the gated mansions had its own garden, shaded by trees and hidden from the road by stucco walls and closely-trimmed hedges. Rada knew most of the people who lived in these houses, but even still, the neighborhood felt unwelcoming.
They were headed for Bakayn Hill, a little knob of rock and jungle thrusting out from the side of the valley, where the Pradivani Palace—one of the king’s less-desirable old residences—had been put at the disposal of Elwyn and her family. It was a far cry from Wealdan Castle, no doubt, but it was a comfortable place to live. And since accepting her current assignment a year and a half earlier, Rada had called it home, as well.
They passed a Myrcian knight they knew riding in an open carriage. After they’d said hello and traded a few remarks about the weather, they rode on, and Elwyn returned briefly to their previous topic.
“Just remember that if it doesn’t work out with Walter, you’ve got plenty of other options.” The princess caught Rada’s eye and winked.
Rada smiled and nodded, trying to seem cheerful, but feeling wretched inside. It was true there were a great many young men around the exiled court, both Myrcians and Sahasrans. Most were full of themselves, like Lord Anish. Some of them were nicer. But so far, Sir Walter Davies was the only one Rada had liked well enough to make an effort at going beyond friendship. If only Walter would notice what she was doing and respond in some way.
It was really very discouraging, actually, because if things didn’t work out with Walter, Rada couldn’t think of anyone else she wanted. And she couldn’t think of anyone who wanted her, either. It always seemed she was too Sahasran for the Myrcian boys, and too Ivich for the Sahasran boys.
“That’s the story of my life,” she thought, as they rode up to the palace gate. “Always too much of one thing, and not enough of another.”