Unspeakably Wooed (Preview)

The crowd shifted in the Palm Court, under the high glass dome, and Andras Byrne felt a hand on his ass. This was by no means a new experience for him, and he knew whose it was. He actually liked having it there, and normally he would have let the fellow grope around for the fun of it, no matter who might be watching. But people at court would talk, and there were some kinds of rumors even his mother couldn’t protect him from.

Andras brushed the man’s hand away. “I like to leave it outside when I’m meeting the queen.” But he said it with a smile, to let Geert know he wasn’t really upset. He didn’t care much for propriety and decorum, either, but he knew his mother would want him to make an effort, if only for the sake of the family.

The line moved more quickly now. Most of the nobles, dressed up in their beaded silk and jewels, were at the levee to see and be seen, and they had nothing important to say to her majesty. They just needed to be announced and make their bows before they could go off to the gilded parlors and the festival hall, where twenty courses of food and fifty kinds of wine were laid out, so they could parade for their friends and rivals.

“This is boring,” said Geert, tossing back his long, dirty blond hair and frowning at the marvelous tropical garden. His gaze fell on some pink and purple orchids nestled nearby in a bed of moss and ferns. “Those displease me.”

“We’ll go somewhere else afterward,” said Andras. “This is court. It’s not supposed to be a good time.”

The chamberlain bowed them in, past alabaster pillars, and Andras checked to see his sword was hanging straight and he hadn’t left his tight leather trousers untied.

The throne room was lined with pages and soldiers in black and silver—the colors of the ruling house of Gramiren. The banners of the ten duchies hung from the balcony above, their bright blues and greens and reds muted in the shadows. Great windows rose behind the marble throne, but the festival pavilion blocked nearly all the sunlight at this time of day, so the room was lit by huge twisting candelabras, like it was night.

At last the line moved again, and Andras heard the chamberlain call his name and Geert’s. He stepped up, barely glancing yet at the glittering figure on the throne, or at her shimmering companions, before dropping into his lowest, most elegant bow. From the corner of his eye, he saw Geert doing the same, which was a relief. Part of him had been worried the idiot would drop a curtsy or snap an Immani salute, just to be funny. Or worse yet, wink at Baron Theodore Musgrove, member of the king’s privy council and the queen’s lifelong friend, standing just off to the queens left side in a stunning gown silver silk and fine black lace.

“Ah, Lord Andras,” came a smooth, alto voice. “You and your friend are welcome.”

He looked up now and met those sharp, cold eyes. Queen Muriel Gramiren, in a slim gown of gray lace and silk, sat tall and straight, perfectly centered in the huge throne, hands resting lightly on her knees. Her full red lips were set in a rigid smile. A silver crown, studded with diamonds, sat atop her pale braids, and more diamonds shone at her wrists and ankles. But it was those eyes that caught one’s attention and held it.

She was the star attraction of today’s levee—the king being out west still, fighting the rebels, and the crown prince doing the same out east, where Andras and Geert had come from. Princess Donella sat to one side of the queen, the only other person seated in the room. She was the image of her mother, but softer, more diffuse somehow. Her smile was much friendlier than her mother’s, too. As Andras spared her a quick glance, she gave him a tiny, discreet wave. He nodded, then returned his attention to the queen. First he introduced Geert, which was only proper.

“So you’re from Zekustia?” asked the queen. “So few of our mercenaries hail from there.”

“But great in feats of arms, no doubt,” said the queen. “Are you on your way home now?”

Geert confirmed that he was. For a second, Andras hoped the queen would beg his lover to stay, but that would have been asking a bit much.

“Now as for you, Andras, it seems like only yesterday you were in here saying ‘goodbye,’” said her majesty. There might have been a trace of a rebuke there. Andras had barely been at the eastern front for six months, and he had returned in perfect health. If he had been a better knight, this would have been the moment for him to beg for a new appointment. But he didn’t really want to. He was bored of war.

Andras bowed again and said, “Your majesty, I bring you greetings from his royal highness, your son. Both to you and to her royal highness.” He nodded at the queen’s daughter. “Princess Donella, your brother asked me to say that he has enjoyed your letters immensely.”

The girl beamed at him. “That’s so kind of you, Andras. I’m glad you’re back safe.”

“Yes, how fortunate that the Keneshire levies weren’t needed anymore,” said the queen. “Tell me, my lord, how is your family?”

He took a deep breath. This was a potentially touchy subject. “I have only seen my sister Lauren since returning, your majesty.”

“Tell her ‘hello’ for me!” cried the princess. “Though I saw her yesterday. But even so, tell her ‘hi.’”

The queen leaned forward, resting her strong jaw on a jeweled hand. “Your older brother is still at war, I believe. Give him my best regards if you write to him, will you? I hardly see him anymore.”

If Andras were the kind of fellow who blushed easily, he would have done it now. “I’ll let him know you asked after him, your majesty.”

“And how about your darling mother?” Queen Muriel went on, the corners of her blood-red lips curling up. “Has Duchess Flora returned from Drohen, yet?”

The princess’s face started to redden, and even Andras felt his cheeks turn warm. Drohen was a city out west, the headquarters of the king’s army. “She...has not, my lady.”

“Cherish her,” said the queen, sitting back again. “She is nearing an age now, Andras, where she will need your support. A boy should never forget his mother.”

Andras promised he wouldn’t, and the queen dismissed him with a little smile and a barely suppressed chuckle.

As they headed past the black-clad guardsmen into the Robing Chamber and out toward the festival pavilion, Geert leaned closer to Andras and asked, “What was all that about your family? You seemed a bit tense, or is my Myrcian not good enough to follow what was going on?”

“Your Myrcian is fine,” sighed Andras. “It’s a long story. But basically, my brother, Pedr, used to sleep with the queen, and my mother is the king’s mistress.”

“That’s not a long story at all,” said Geert, with an evil grin, “but it’s a good one. Aren’t you the little tribe of royal favorites! How come you never mentioned this before?”

They reached the crowded pavilion, where they found half a dozen long trestle tables under the bright-painted canvas ceiling and a constellation of brass lamps. Each table was covered with silver trays heavy with food and wine. There were spiced lamb and curried peacock and a whole swan laid out with its wings spread as if in flight. There were wines of every color from silvery-white to a crimson so dark it was nearly black. Andras and Geert chose an Annenstruker Rodvin and started circulating among the little clusters of guests.

As always with Geert, half the fun came when they moved on from each group, and he critiqued the clothes and appearance of everyone they met. “Her hair looked like a rat’s nest,” he said of one baroness, “and not a nice one, either. The nest of a rat who has given up and really let itself go.” About an earl, he said, “How many chins can one man have? Is he hoarding them for winter?”

The reception in the throne room must have finally ended, because now the queen, her ladies, and Baron Musgrove came in. Her majesty went off to one side to charm some foreign ambassadors, but Princess Donella spotted Andras and came bounding over, blue silk ribbons fluttering from her golden hair. He always forgot how tall she was. Almost as tall as Geert, in fact.

“It’s so good to see you again,” she said, beaming. “It’s always more fun when you’re around.”

The princess turned her smile on him. “Then you have marvelous taste. Did the two of you serve under my brother together?”

“But now you’re going home to Zekustia,” said Donella. “That’s so sad. You should stay through the summer, at least.”

The princess looked worried. “You’re not going back to Zekustia together, are you?”

“I’ve invited him,” said Geert with a shrug. “But he says he’d rather stay here.”

He laughed. “Obviously.” Then, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, he said, “I hope your writing is coming along well.”

“It is!” she said brightly. “I’ve started a new series, and I’d like to know what you think of the protagonist and his paramour.”

But before she could start telling him about her new characters, one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting came over to tell her that some foreign nobleman had arrived and needed to be shown around the court parlors.

“Oh, blast it all,” Donella said. “Duty calls, gentlemen.” She curtsied, and they bowed. “I’ll see you later, Andras, won’t I?”

She left, and the two men went back to circulating around the party. But later, when they were in their room at their inn, Geert brought the princess up again. “She seemed to like you quite a bit.”

Andras, who was washing his face from a porcelain basin by the mirror, shook his head, splashing water over the warped old sideboard. “Oh, that. Yes, we were friends at school. Or rather, she’s my little sister’s best friend. That’s how I know her. She is rather nice.”

Geert removed his shirt and tossed it carelessly on a threadbare footstool. “And she’s an authoress, is she?”

“I suppose you could call her one. Little romances about knights and ladies and dragons—that sort of thing. To be honest, I’ve only read a couple of them.”

“H’m, I see.” Geert sat down on the edge of the huge, sagging bed that took up half the room, and started removing his shoes and socks. “She’s not unattractive. Looks like her mother probably did at the same age. Same perky chest. Same tight little backside. Same frigid eyes. Same big nose.”

“Among her facial features, it’s definitely the dominant partner. Nice cheekbones, too. It all looks a lot better on her mother, though. It’s sharper, better defined by age, I think.”

“Ah, ha. I see how it is.” Geert wandered over and tugged at Andras’s underthings.

Andras had been enjoying watching Geert undress, which was evident as soon as the last of his clothes hit the floor. “As you can see, it’s not really like that at all. She’s just a friend.”

Geert chuckled as he returned to the bed. There he pulled the stopper from a bottle of oil. “You know, if you want to think of her as you fuck me, I won’t mind.”

“Why don’t you fuck yourself?” said Andras, though he had no intention of letting Geert follow his advice. In moments, he was in bed, too, tugging open Geert’s trousers.

The levee was officially over, and Princess Donella felt she had spent enough time in the real world for one day. The Alokkoan envoy had been so dull, and he had kept asking questions about the war and politics she couldn’t answer. What had the Sigor rebels been up to for the five years they had been gone from the capital? Was Edwin Sigor, the king in exile, still in Sahasra Deva? Did anyone think he would gather an army to invade? Were the Immani financially backing the Sigor supporters in the east? She apologized that she really never listened to court gossip and had no good answers. Finally when he realized she was a terrible source of information, they parted in the Palm Court, and she had rushed back to the festival pavilion. But by then Andras and his Zekustian friend were long gone. Blast it all.

As the groups of knights and nobles and ladies began to break up, she ran upstairs to her room, where her lady’s maid, Janice, helped her out of her stiff gown of blue silk taffeta. Had Andras noticed it? She certainly hoped so. But he would be at court all the time now. There would be other days and other dresses. No reason to dwell on it.

For now, she had work to do. With minimal help, she slipped into one of her everyday dresses—plain blue wool, with green collars and cuffs. Then she grabbed her little portable writing set and headed outside.

Queen Maud’s Garden, named after the first queen of Myrcia, lay beyond the festival pavilion, at the extreme northern end of the castle hill, a private retreat for the ladies and gentlemen of the court. Still dressed in their finest bright silks and linens, people wandered up and down the gravel paths, admiring the banks of enormous red and orange lilies, and sharing quiet, private moments under trellises heavy with roses and clematis.

Donella felt a touch of pride as she walked through the little park. Particularly as she passed the geraniums and petunias. She had always loved gardening, and although her mother didn’t want her to get her own hands dirty anymore, Donella consulted with the royal gardeners every spring and helped decide which annuals would be planted in which beds.

She had also taken it on herself to decide which hedges would be cut back, and which would be allowed to grow freely. As a result, she could make little nooks and crannies for herself that no one (other than the gardeners) knew about. So, after letting one elderly couple shuffle past her near the choir of the royal chapel, she ducked between a thick wall of boxwood and a lilac bush, and she took her seat on a tiny wooden bench, half-shaded by ivy.

She set out her pens and her little desk and ruled her parchment, then tried to decide exactly how she would start her next story. It was part of a new series with a new hero, and Lauren Byrne was already demanding the next installment. This chapter was an important one, though. Sir Donald Graham was about to meet his lady love for the first time—or the girl who would be his lady love, anyway—and Donella didn’t have a name for her yet.

In her mind, she could see Donald. Tall, certainly. With golden hair and blue eyes that were...well, rather the same color as her own. A prominent nose, too. Something to give his face character and possibly suggest to the reader a certain...virility. Donella blushed.

But what of his lady? Dark red hair, maybe, and blue eyes. Roughly the color of...well, of Andras’s. A thought struck Donella. What was the feminine form of Andras? Andrea? Yes, Andrea. Lady Andrea, then. The fair Lady Andrea Burnell, of flashing eyes and raven-red hair.

Could hair be “raven-red”? A very dark red, perhaps, and nearly black? Did that make any sense? Donella thought it did, and wrote it down so she wouldn’t forget.

About the time she was ready to start the chapter in earnest, though, she heard rustling in the lilac bush, and seconds later, one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting appeared. It was Therese Halifax, daughter of the Duke of Haydonshire and one of the nicer people at court. She made an awkward curtsy in the confined space and said, “Sorry, my lady, but your mother has asked to see you.”

Donella turned to the left, her eyes wandering up the walls of the palace, past the festival pavilion, up the soaring towers with their crystal chambers at the top, then down again past the gleaming dome and over the long balconies thrusting out from the walls. Her eyes came to rest on the largest of these, on the fourth floor facing north. One of the glass doors stood ajar, and no doubt her mother was lurking there in the shadows, watching her at this very moment.

With a sigh, Donella packed up her writing set again. “I’ll go right now,” she told Therese. “No need to run ahead.”

As they stepped together out onto the path, Therese whispered, “Just so you know, Arturo is up there, too.”

“Naturally,” said Donella. There was no anger in her voice or disappointment. There was barely even resignation. Arturo was there because of course he would be.

A few minutes later, she knocked on the huge, gilded doors of the royal bedroom, and when her mother told her to enter, she waited until the count of ten to be sure. Her mother had very eccentric notions of privacy.

At least today the queen was fully clothed. So far. She stood at her simple white-lacquered dressing table, past the vast royal bed with its gauzy curtains. Sir Arturo, the queen’s latest “favorite,” stood behind her, trying to undo the laces of her bodice with his big, clumsy hands while she frowned at herself in a full-length mirror. Her eyes caught Donella’s in the reflection, and she smiled.

“There, now, Arturo. Step aside and let my daughter do it.” She pointed at a bottle resting nearby. “Fetch us a different wine. This one is a bit oaky for my taste.”

The strapping young man stepped dutifully away and bowed to Donella as he passed her. “Um...hello my lady,” he said, blushing. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” He was quite young, but at least he hadn’t actually gone to school with her like the last one, Sir Rodney.

Donella got the laces untied and helped her mother out of the gray court dress, revealing a simple shift of pure white silk. Then her mother stripped that away, too, and started removing her underthings. Donella quickly averted her eyes.

“You might as well look,” said her mother. “It’s what you’ll be seeing in the mirror in twenty years.”

But Donella didn’t look again until the queen had on another shift—this one coal black and lacy, with bits of silver embroidery on the bodice and sleeves, and a skirt that barely extended to mid-thigh.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Donella. “I’m starting a new series with a new hero.”

“How nice,” said her mother vaguely. “I still have that one you gave me around here somewhere. I really do mean to finish reading it someday.”

Donella wasn’t holding her breath. “Therese said you needed to see me, Mother.”

“Ah, yes. I saw you go straight as an arrow for Andras Byrne the moment we got to the pavilion. Is there something going on between you two?”

“I...well, um...,” Donella stammered. She bit her lip and shuffled her feet, then added, “I, er...um,” before managing to piece together a pair of actual sentences: “We’re only friends. He’s Lauren’s brother, after all.”

“Yes, his mother is having a rather difficult time right now.” With a mysterious grin, the queen added, “Or at least she’s about to. But anyway, I worry the Byrne family might feel somewhat unappreciated. And you two would make a fine couple.”

“You really think so?” asked Donella, leaning in to look at herself in the mirror and tugging on the end of her braid. The rest of what her mother had said barely registered with her at all.

“I am certain of it. In fact, the sooner you are seen to be courting, the better.”

Donella jumped back. “Courting? Mother, I...I mean, Andras and I are friends. I would hardly know what to say.”

“You don’t need to do much talking,” said the queen. “Arturo is proof of that. Put yourself in Andras’s way and make sure he can’t fail to notice you.”

Thinking of some of the courtship stories she had written, Donella said, “Shouldn’t we have some sort of formal introduction or chaperoned visits or something?”

“No, invite him out with you. Go riding, go hunting, go boating on the river. Go someplace you can be together and things can,” the queen gave a low chuckle, “take their natural course. And as long as you two are alone, I’m sure they will.”

“The less proper the better.” She led Donella over to the bed and opened the top drawer of the little white-lacquered table. Pointing to a blue crystal bottle, she said, “There are potions you can use to keep from getting pregnant, if that’s what you’re worried about. It won’t be too long before I don’t need this anymore, thank Earstien. You may as well take some of my reserve stock.”

This conversation had taken such a strange and alarming turn that Donella couldn’t even form words anymore. She gaped at her mother, eyes wide.

“Or if that doesn’t take your fancy,” her mother went on, pulling out a different bottle with an oily gold liquid inside, “then there’s always ‘Thessalian’ sex.”

From a lower drawer, she produced a small volume with red covers and handed it to Donella. It proved to be a Sahasran sex manual, with the most shockingly lurid scenes in bright watercolors. The first one showed a very well-endowed young lady kneeling before a man, who was thrusting half of...himself...into her mouth, while she did something with her hands in the area of his backside.

“Yes, I admit some of the pictures aren’t as clear as they could be. But you can get the general idea, I hope. You’ll want to study the first chapter and the third.” She offered the oil, too. “Care to borrow this? No? Well, you know where it is now if you need it.” She started to put the bottle back, then appeared to have second thoughts and left it sitting out by the bed.

Arturo returned with a different wine, and Donella felt it was her cue to leave. Knowing her mother, she half expected to be invited to stay and take notes, but luckily the queen did nothing to halt her, merely calling out, “Feel free to do some experimenting on your own,” as Donella shut the door.

She went down the hall, through the old nursery, dark and empty, to her own apartment, where she stuffed the sex manual behind one of the dozens of mounted trophies on her bedroom wall. She didn’t dare put it on her bookshelves or even under the bed. What if Janice or the housemaids should see it? No, better to put it behind the head of some poor old elk, where no one would think to look for it.

The trophies—deer and elk and wild boar—weren’t actually hers. They were left over from the previous occupant of the apartment, Princess Elwyn of the deposed Sigor dynasty. Donella didn’t like hunting very much. She always felt sorry for the animals. But she kept the heads and antlers up on the wall because they seemed like the kind of things a young bachelor knight would have in his quarters. It helped her understand the heroes of her stories a little better to live in the sort of place they would have. She had given names to all the trophies, though. The elk she had hidden the pornographic book behind was Fransis.

Looking the big stag in his glassy black eyes, she said, “Oh, Fransis. Did Elwyn ever have to put up with this from her parents?” Most likely she had. There had been some plan to get Elwyn to marry Donella’s older brother at one point, and from what Donella had heard, Elwyn hadn’t been very happy about it. No doubt this was the common lot of all princesses everywhere.

She went to her outer balcony—the one with a view over the whole city—and took a long breath of clear, spring air. No need to be discouraged. The important point—the thing she had to keep reminding herself about—was that her mother approved of a match with Andras. This was more than she ever could have hoped for. More than she had even dared to pray for, in fact.

“Now I have to figure out how to approach him,” she thought. Whatever her mother said, Donella was determined to do this her own way, without the help of Sahasran sex manuals.

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?”

“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?”

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.”

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.

“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.”

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?”

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.”