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Edwin and Caedmon could have left the next morning, except that there would be a big parade on the first day of February, when the levies of Keneburg were officially called out to start their training. Since so many people knew the king was in town, they decided to stay and not disappoint those who would expect to see him at the festivities.
For her part, Elwyn was deeply grateful that her little brother had agreed to make the trip in her place. Over the next few days, though, she felt increasingly embarrassed about it. She wouldn’t have minded going to see the Keelshire nobles, at least in theory, though she knew she wasn’t much of a diplomat. She wouldn’t even have minded going on a trip with Andras. But weeks and months of pretending to be giddy lovers would have been a trial beyond her powers of endurance.
The weather turned abruptly colder again, and instead of their daily walks around the Noon Court, she and Andras sat for an hour or two every morning on a couch by a fire in a corner of the buttery. People walked past all the time, looked in, and then went away grinning. It was stupid, but she and Andras both knew they were supposed to keep up the pretense of the betrothal, at least for the time being. So that meant putting themselves on display every now and again.
Elwyn had seen Andras receive a letter at breakfast, and perceiving how happy it had made him, she had a guess who the author might have been. “Have you heard from my cousin Donella lately?” she asked.
Andras started, then gave her a guilty smile. “Um...yes. It’s difficult getting letters back and forth. It’s so strange. She was here at Seefest, you know. That’s when Mother announced to everyone she would call out the levies for Edwin.”
“That must have been a nasty shock for Donella.”
“Less than you’d think. She really doesn’t care about politics. Neither do I, for that matter.”
Elwyn smiled. “Then it’s lucky you two found each other.”
“With your help, of course.”
The previous spring, Andras had come out to Briddobad expressly to get betrothed to Elwyn. They had failed to hit it off, which had less to do with any personal dislike, than with the Earl of Hyrne’s clumsy attempts to make them fall in love using Lady Rada’s magysk potion. Still, they might have ended up together in a failed and loveless marriage, except that Elwyn’s cousin Donella Gramiren had shown up out of nowhere, madly in love with Andras and determined to save him from his fate. In a strange and improbable series of events, Donella had ended up imprisoned in the cellar of the Pradivani Palace, and Elwyn had joined forces with Andras and Rada to free her.
Elwyn quite liked Donella, in spite of the fact that she was the daughter of the usurper. Donella was everyone’s storybook notion of a princess: tall, blonde, and curvy; polite and demure; sweet and gentle and kind. All the things Elwyn wasn’t. And now, thanks to their adventure the previous year, Donella had a ring that allowed her to turn herself into a man, if she wished. That was fortunate, since Andras—like Elwyn—had no fixed preference between men and women in the bedroom. Some storybook princesses were a bit more complicated than others.
“I’m glad we’re not going to have to go north,” said Andras. “Donella likes you, and she trusts both of us, but if everyone was going on about you and me and our ‘pre-honeymoon,’ it would have been hard for her.”
“That’s true,” said Elwyn. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Another reason to be relieved that Edwin was going, instead of her. Donella’s father could go freeze in the Void, but Elwyn would rather have murdered a thousand fluffy bunnies than hurt the poor girl’s feelings.
For the next day or so, Elwyn congratulated herself on once again helping to save Andras and Donella’s love. And then she gradually discovered she had climbed out of the frying pan, only to land squarely in the fire.
It started on the first of February, at the parade of the levies. Or actually just before, when Elwyn was bathing in her room, and one of Duchess Flora’s ladies came in with a gorgeous new green dress. “Her grace was wondering if you would be pleased to wear this,” the woman said.
Elwyn tried it on and discovered it fit quite well, at least through the hips and waist. The bodice was very tight and full of complicated ribbing designed to make it look as if there was a great deal more to Elwyn, or those particular parts of her, than there really was. Elwyn’s motto in such matters was usually that “there’s no sense trying to make a mountain out of a molehill.” But she appreciated the gesture Flora was trying to make, so she wore the dress.
As they gathered at the front gate to watch the parade, though, Elwyn discovered that Andras was wearing a tunic and trousers made of the exact same green fabric. The jacket was even styled the same as her bodice, with the same diagonal ribbing and little lace accents.
All the ladies complimented her on the dress, and most of them noted the similarity of Andras’s outfit. “Oh, Earstien,” thought Elwyn. “They all think I dressed this way on purpose.”
It got even worse that evening, when Flora took Elwyn aside after supper for “a little chat.”
“With all the nobles coming into town for the levy,” said the duchess, “we’re running out of rooms. I was wondering if you’d mind moving in with Andras.”
“What?” Elwyn took Flora’s arm and led her farther away from the group at the hearth, over into an alcove half-hidden by a tapestry. “I’m not marrying your son. I thought that was clear.”
“Elwyn, dear, I don’t care what you and Andras do in your spare time. I know he likes boys on the side, and from what I hear, you lift your skirts for anyone these days. None of that concerns me. I want to be sure of this alliance.”
“The alliance is real,” said Elwyn. “It’s only the marriage that’s fake.”
Flora wasn’t about to give up, though. When Elwyn retired to her room that evening, she found Andras there, along with several trunks of his clothes.
To his credit, he looked mortified. “My mother gave my rooms to Baron Urcard,” he explained, “and she had the servants move my things up here while I was visiting my officers in camp. I’ll um...go see if I can find a room at an inn somewhere.”
“They’re probably all full,” she said. “You can sleep on the settee. You don’t snore, do you?”
“I don’t know.” A corner of his mouth turned up. “You’d have to ask Donella.”
“Perhaps I will someday.” She got some spare sheets from the servants and made up a little bed for him herself. They said goodnight, and she lay awake in the next room, in her bed, staring up at the lacy flounces of the canopy.
“Flora’s not going to stop,” she thought. “Blast her to the Void, but Flora isn’t going to stop.”
Elwyn slid out of bed, pulled out her saddlebags and knapsack, and started packing. When she finished, she put on her dressing gown and crept into the hall, careful not to awaken Andras. He probably wouldn’t try to stop her, but there was no point in making him complicit in this if he didn’t need to be. He was a nice boy, and she didn’t want to make things difficult between him and his mother.
Down the hall, Edwin was awake, reading by the light of a candle. “You should be asleep,” Elwyn told him, as she closed the door softly behind herself. “But since you’re still up, I have an idea.”
“What sort of idea?”
“The sort that gets me away from Duchess Flora before I strangle her. I’m coming with you to Keelweard.”
Edwin’s mouth fell open. Then he shook his head—first to one side, then the other—like he had been swimming and was trying to get water out of his ears. Finally, he found his voice again. “But...but, Elwyn, the whole reason I volunteered to do this was so you wouldn’t have to!”
“I know. That was very chivalrous of you. And now I’m asking you to be chivalrous again and get me out of here.”
“I...well, blast it all, Elwyn. Alright, then. Fine. You can come with me and Caedmon.”
Before dawn, she rose and wrote a quick note for Duchess Flora. It was vague and entirely insincere, especially the part at the end, where Elwyn called herself, “Your obedient daughter.” Then she slipped out of her room, careful again not to wake Andras. She very nearly got away without being seen, but Lady Rada and Sir Walter were waiting for her in the back stairwell.
“You’re not going to stop me,” she told them.
“We have no interest in stopping you,” said Rada, grinning. “But if you’re leaving, so are we.”
Elwyn couldn’t really refuse their help, and even if she could have, she didn’t want to. “The more the merrier,” she said, even though in her experience that cliché was almost never true. No doubt, this would be one of the exceptions.
In the stables, Caedmon looked entirely unsurprised to see Elwyn. “I had a notion you might join us this morning, your royal highness,” he said with a faint smile.
Rodger Cuthing, who would be riding home with them to Keelweard, was overjoyed to find that Elwyn was coming, too. “You’ll love it there! And everyone will be so thrilled to see you! Do you know my sister? She’s a great admirer of yours.”
“How...nice,” said Elwyn. She had no recollection of Rodger’s sister, so whatever sort of “admiration” this was, it had clearly been from afar. Unless Rodger was lying again, which was probably the most likely explanation.
The six of them saddled up and rode away, and by the time the sun had risen and burned off the river fog, they were over the hill and out of sight of the city. Caedmon was an excellent guide, and they moved quickly on little farm lanes and backroads, never on the main highways.
There had been snow in the night. It coated the fields and hung like a damp fur cloak over the hedges and the bare branches of the trees. Now and again, the hedgerows or brambles would crowd in on either side of the path, and Elwyn would think they must have gone the wrong way. But Caedmon was never wrong—there was always a hidden turning or a little gate into the next field. They covered more than seven miles before breakfast, and they were making such good time that Caedmon let them stop at a little roadside inn for sausage gravy, hot biscuits, and mulled cider.
As they ate, Caedmon and Rodger told them a little more about the political situation they faced. “It is true that Broderick Gramiren is not as popular as he used to be,” said Caedmon.
“Absolutely!” cried Rodger. “Everyone hates him. I bet you could fit all the people who still like him in a little country church, with room to spare.”
“That is not even remotely true,” said Caedmon. “The south still supports him, and in the west, he has gained a powerful ally in Bischof Lothar of the Glaube Church.”
Glaube was the faith of Odeland, Myrcia’s neighbor across the western desert. And in the western shires, a lot of Myrcians subscribed to that religion, rather than to the Leafa church. Elwyn, like all the royal family, was a Leafa, but she had never given much thought to theological matters.
“Why would the Glaubes support Cousin Broderick?” asked Edwin.
“Perhaps because their overtures to your family were rebuffed,” said Caedmon.
Now that Elwyn thought of it, she seemed to remember hearing that the Earl of Hyrne had gotten a letter from some cleric in the west, offering to support the Sigors in return for some sort of political concessions, making the Glaube Church more powerful.
“But my uncle said we couldn’t possibly agree to Bischof Lothar’s demands,” said Edwin.
Caedmon shrugged slightly. “Your uncle was right. But it seems the usurper does not share your theological scruples.”
“And in doing so,” said Rodger, “Broderick has offended ten times as many Leafas as there are Glaubes.”
“Your math cannot be correct,” said Caedmon, “but in a broader sense, you might be right. Who knows? Only time will tell whether your uncle made the correct decision, your majesty. There are many powers in Myrcia—not just the ten dukes. Broderick is looking for support anywhere he can find it.”
“But we have you,” said Elwyn. “And Rada has her magysk ring, too.”
Caedmon nodded respectfully to Rada. “That is true, but the Gramirens also have magysk help. And they are searching for more all the time.”
“That’s not very comforting,” said Edwin.
“If you had wanted comfort,” said Caedmon, “you could have stayed back in Briddobad.”