Chapter Six

 

Tired and slow of thought the next morning, Telyn shivered and reached for the robe flung over the foot of the bed. She pulled it on over her shift with a jaw-popping yawn, and her stomach clenched with anxiety as she fastened the garment. Vuldur would arrive within hours, and she would be expected to perform for him.

A simple breakfast left by some unseen servant awaited her when she emerged from the chamber. The new pages and maids, trained by the weary Diarmid, were already competent and unobtrusive as the best of the servants she remembered at court.

After her second late night in a row in the pursuit of music, Telyn held no regrets for lost sleep. Word of their battle spread to the upstairs household. They’d gained an audience in Gwidion’s library and outside on the landing for some time. Only the servants’ fear of Marithiel’s possible reprimands scattered them back to their duties. Emrys proudly called the matter a draw at the end and kissed her on the forehead. It had been a wonderful night of laughter and music, but best of all, the Harpmaster and his shadow were reunited.

Even though Mithrais vowed her safety was assured, Telyn found discreet places for her weapons before she retired. Mithrais watched with silent approval while she prepared her own defenses in their quarters, and the matter was closed.

They’d been up late with Emrys and the musical challenge, but Mithrais still rose well before dawn. Under pretext of his usual habits, he would break his fast with Gwidion. This morning Mithrais would also secretly help his father dress for the formal greeting in the courtyard. This all-important piece of etiquette would reestablish Gwidion as the head of his household and the host of the royal delegation.

She sat at the table and spread a slice of bread with butter and dark, golden honey. Her hands betrayed her anxiety and lack of sleep in their clumsy function. When a clatter from her bedchamber made Telyn jump, she chided herself for her skittishness. She bit into the sweet, sticky conglomeration with a sigh.

The faint sound of splashing water suggested a bath was being readied, and she remembered maids were assigned to help her dress. Diarmid had revealed with wicked humor that several of Marithiel's new maids vied competitively for the right to attend Telyn.

And a hairdresser. She winced. Her mane of curls seldom submitted without a fight. As a child, she thought hairdressers the worst form of torture imaginable. Emrys had used it in a playful threat against her on more than one occasion to ensure compliance.

Her cousin would ride out this morning to meet the delegation and lead the procession to the manor from the Eastern Gate. She wondered what would happen if the Gwaith’orn just inside the city walls decided to greet the delegation also. The thought made her giggle despite the dread of Vuldur’s arrival. She took another deep breath to steel her courage and went to face whatever torments the maids had in store.

 

* * * *

 

Lenad turned out to be a soft-spoken young woman, glad to be in Telyn’s chamber and not in Marithiel’s. Warm water waited in a tub before the hearth, scented with oil that hinted of eastern spices. The maid was deft and thorough as she worked the soap through Telyn’s abundant curls. Another pitcher of clear water rinsed the lather from her hair.

Wrapped in towels the moment she stepped out of the bath, Telyn sat before the fire while Lenad combed through her curls. The hairdresser arrived. The clucking, perfumed woman brandished a pair of scissors long enough to be a weapon. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the state of Telyn’s untamed mane of hair. After some discussion and inspection, she snipped a disconcertingly large pile of curls. They managed to dress her hair in a manner that met the requirements of formality and set off the golden-brown ringlets to their best advantage. It was a far less traumatic experience than she had expected. Telyn muttered thanks to the Fates when the hairdresser left the room and took her potions, perfumes, and deadly shears with her.

Marithiel’s chief maid, Argaile, arrived with the finished gown, and the two women laced her into the rough silk bodice. The seamstresses had done their work well despite the short constraints of time. She declined the tight satin sleeves which were to be sewn on underneath, for they hampered the ability to bend her arms at the elbow. If she were to play any instrument, her movement could not be restrained.

Lenad had set long, polished bronze against the wall beside the window. Telyn examined her reflection half-heartedly. The knot of tension lodged in the pit of her stomach made it difficult to concentrate on anything. Her hands still trembled while she donned a pair of topaz earrings, one of the few items of jewelry she possessed fine enough to wear for such a reception. The pale expanse of skin above the green bodice fairly cried out for adornment, but Telyn owned nothing appropriate for a formal gown.

“It needs a necklace,” Argaile said, her thoughts in the same vein. “I will ask Lady Marithiel if there is something you can borrow.”

“Wait a moment on that.” Mithrais' voice came from the doorway, and Telyn caught a distorted flash of his reflection in the bronze as he entered the room. She turned to greet him, as the maids curtsied, and was struck speechless with admiration.

For the first time, she saw Mithrais dressed to represent who he truly was, a scion of the royal house and the son of the Lord of Cerisild. A beaten silver circlet crossed his brow, bright against sun-browned skin, to disappear into the loose waves of his hair. His tunic, the same deep green as her gown, gleamed with silver embroidery at collar, hem, and cuffs. He carried a flat wooden box, scarred and time worn, in his left hand.

“You are beautiful.” Mithrais set the box on the mantel and moved to take her hands. She saw him note their tremor. He continued with gentle humor, “Perhaps not as beautiful as that night in Rothvori, but you were smiling then.”

Telyn managed a shadow of a smile as the maids withdrew to the dayroom. “I wish we were back in Rothvori, or the bluff outpost, or the springs...anywhere but here this morning.”

“Perhaps when this is finished, we can escape for a few days.”

“Promise me?” she said hopefully, and managed a real grin in answer to his smile. He kissed her and Telyn leaned against him, taking comfort from his calm and steady presence.

“Is Lord Gwidion ready?” She asked in a whisper in case other ears were still listening.

“Ready and waiting,” he whispered back. “Diarmid and some of the retainers will spirit him downstairs just as the delegation arrives. He is a man with a purpose this morning. I have not seen him so ready to face the world since before his accident.”

He retrieved the box from the mantelpiece and brought it to her. “As a token of Father's great affection for you, he has sent something he hopes you’ll wear.”

Wonderingly, Telyn opened the box and drew in a breath of delight. Against the worn silk lining a necklace of pale stones set in delicate silver filigree shimmered with rainbows of brilliant color.

Mithrais lifted the necklace and set it about her throat. The coolness of the silver and gems upon her skin made her shiver as he fastened the clasp. “This belonged to his mother, and he wishes you to have it. The silver was mined in the Cesperion Hills, as were the stones. They are called raispar here in the Wood, although I’ve heard another name.”

“Opals.” Telyn walked back to the bronze to see the effect. “It's beautiful.”

“That’s Father's gift to you. This is mine.” Mithrais opened his hand. In his palm gleamed a ring. Several strands of precious metals, twisted at the shank, rose to form an intricate woven cradle about a tawny faceted stone. Light reflected in brilliant flashes within it. Telyn had never seen such a gem, and looked up at Mithrais in mute astonishment. He slipped it over the third finger of her left hand. “Lifemates are not required to exchange outward tokens of the ties between them, but I saw this yesterday when I visited the silversmith. It reminded me of your eyes.”

Telyn, voiceless, could do no more than draw him down into a kiss.

A small, embarrassed sound from the doorway alerted Telyn to the maid’s return. Mithrais drew back as Lenad cleared her throat, her gaze averted and her cheeks rosy. Argaile joined her a breath later and said, “Lady Marithiel is awaiting you in the solar.”

“Eager to perform her inspection, no doubt.” Mithrais acknowledged. Argaile’s mouth twitched in an effort to keep her businesslike countenance.

The maids brushed invisible specks of lint from Telyn’s gown, made last-second adjustments to her hair. They fussed until she at last held up her hand to fend them off and said nervously, “Enough. If she finds a mote of dust or a strand of hair out of place, I will accept the blame.”

Mithrais’ eyes glowed with pride as he gazed at her. “I doubt even my mother can find fault with your appearance in any respect.” He bowed with careful, exaggerated formality. “I am unfamiliar with the ways of court, Lady Bard. How does one ask the privilege of escorting a beautiful woman to the solar?”

Telyn could not help but laugh at Mithrais’ attempt to ease her anxiety and offered him a deep curtsy. “The honor is mine, Lord Mithrais. The attendance of such a noble lord is more than a simple bard could hope to merit.” She extended a hand that still trembled, despite her attempts at levity, and let him raise her up.

The soaring entryway of the manor was transformed. The glittering green and silver tapestry of the Tree of Cerisild that usually hung from the third landing had been lowered to the second. The banner of the royal house replaced it in primacy upon the highest railing. The field of brilliant blue, with a golden sun shining above a silver moon, fluttered in the breeze from the open doorway.

Not a speck of dirt remained on the flagstones in front of the door, now covered by a fine carpet. One ill-at-ease young page stood guard to make certain no one trod on it before the guests.

Through the doorway to the great hall, tables draped in snowy linens and set with silver plates awaited the courses of the feast. The large windows were thrown open to the sun and fresh air. Emrys’ great harp occupied a position beside the dais, and a low sideboard held Telyn’s instruments. It only heightened her nerves as a reminder of what Marithiel expected her to do. 

She attempted to gain a measure of serenity and breathe, but tension knotted her muscles. Before they entered the long hallway leading to the solar, she stopped short, unable to continue. “Perhaps we were wrong not to tell Marithiel and Gilmarion why I’m really here,” she said, shamed by the edge of panic in her voice. “What will happen if Vuldur tells them I am responsible for Vaddon’s death? Marithiel will think we’ve made her a fool, and I don’t know what Gilmarion will think—”

“My father knows the whole truth, and he welcomed you into his house and his family,” Mithrais reminded her. “They can’t revoke it, no matter what Vuldur might say.” He enfolded her shaking hands with his own, and his thumb touched the ring he had given her. “I must confess this ring was not just a gift of love. I want an outward sign showing them all you belong here with me.”

Telyn took the deep breaths that would trigger her disciplines. By the time they reached the end of the hall, it allowed her an outward calm, but her mind remained distracted and jittery. If she were to perform, she risked transferring her tension onto an already uncomfortable situation.

The enormous wooden door of the solar stood open. In front the arched windows, Marithiel paced like a caged lioness. Resplendent, she wore a royal blue gown trimmed with gems, and a diadem graced her golden hair with another wealth of jewels. The signs of a sleepless night were evident upon the Lady of Cerisild’s pale countenance when she turned. Her lips pressed together in a thin line. Marithiel gave them a cursory inspection.

“You look well enough.” She cast only a fleeting glance upon Telyn before she gazed out the window again and twisted long, slender fingers that sparkled with rings. “Where is Gilmarion, Mithrais? Have you seen him?”

“No, Mother,” Mithrais answered, and exchanged a glance with Telyn. “Has he not yet come down?”

“No, of course he has not, or I would not have asked,” Marithiel snapped. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, despite the cool breezes admitted by the windows. For a moment, Telyn wondered if she feared Gilmarion had abandoned her to face the delegation alone.

“Undoubtedly, he is seeing to things which require his personal attention. Is there something with which I can help you?” Mithrais asked.

“All the preparations are made, unless you wish to replace the page who did not report to his service this morning. These village boys are quite unreliable. Our guests will have to accept we are limited in what we can provide. It is not Belthil, after all.”

“I think they will be satisfied with our primitive comforts, Mother.” Mithrais' vocal expression held a certain amount of dryness. Marithiel whirled on him suddenly.

“No sarcasm this morning, Mithrais, I beg you. I know I cannot ask that you truly care. But for the duration of this hearing, can you not act as if you respect my position if not my person?”

Telyn held her breath while Mithrais stared at the Lady of Cerisild. His face mirrored a number of complex emotions, but at last he affirmed, “I will try.”

“Thank you.” She turned her attention upon Telyn. “Are you prepared to play for our guests, Lady Bard?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Telyn inclined her head. In truth, she was less than prepared and still hoped Emrys had been able to come up with an alternative. The princess would have said something more but a young servitor burst in and bowed hastily.

“Excuse me, Lady Marithiel. They are here—they have just turned into the lane!”

Somewhere in the house a bell sounded, calling the servants to assemble. Telyn’s heart lurched with dread, and the Lady of Cerisild took a deep breath herself before she acknowledged the page. “Very well. Have you seen Lord Gilmarion, Tomis?”

“No, my lady.”

“Go then, and take your place with the household.”

The boy turned and fled. His footsteps echoed down the long hallway in the silence as Marithiel touched her hair and smoothed her gown, uncertainty in her eyes.

Mithrais silently offered his arm to Telyn. She felt a moment of pity for Marithiel. Her husband and younger son alienated long ago, Marithiel could claim no ally except the absent Gilmarion, who stood accused. Even now, he hid things from her.

“May I escort you to the courtyard, Mother?” Mithrais offered his other arm. Marithiel hesitated a moment, ice blue eyes meeting pale green ones in a glance across the irreconcilable chasm between them.

“Thank you, Mithrais,” she said at last, and placed her hand atop his. They swept from the room, into the near-panic of a crowded entryway.