bow.
The delm waved for her attention again, this time for a man of late middle years, hair aggressively red, hazel eyes hooded.
“Your cousin Dil Nem, son of your late uncle Kern Tiazan.”
Again the heavy nod, the exchange of names; the pass on to Val Con.
“Your cousin Ilvin, daughter of your cousin Jen Sar Tiazan, who is from clan at present.”
“Your cousin Kol Vus . . .”
“Your cousin . . .”
Miri lost count, very likely lost names, after the first dozen or so. Her head was beginning to ache with all the cool, polite faces and she started to want a slug of kynak. She gritted her teeth and bowed kinship to tel’Vosti, damn him: “Your uncle, Win Den tel’Vosti, son of Randa Tiazan and Pel Jim tel’Vosti.”
There was another blur of names and faces after him; the next she took clear note of was the last.
“Your cousin Alys, daughter of your cousin Makina Tiazan, who is from clan at this moment.”
Alys, who would be “very well,” but never a Kea Tiazan. Alys, who they were going to offer as a contract-wife to Val Con, when she came of age.
She made her bow, very serious, and stood tall, all three and a half feet of her, curly, orange-y hair held down by the brute strength of three formidable-looking combs. The brown eyes shone with something past curiosity or even friendliness and Miri caught her breath. She’d seen that look on recruits, sometimes, the ones who fancied themselves “in love” with the commander.
“Cousin Miri,” she piped up, “I’m happy to see you.”
Oh, hell. Like she didn’t have enough trouble without an elf hooking onto her. Miri returned the bow with matching dignity.
“Cousin Alys, I am happy to see you.” She made the backhand wave toward Val Con and repeated the weary formula for the last time, moving the kid along. She wanted that drink bad, she thought, and looked up to find Emrith Tiazan watching her, something like approval in the lines of her face.
“Appropriately done,” the old lady said. “We now go in to dinner. Win Den, attend me, by your grace.”
tel’Vosti stepped forward and offered his arm, which she took, allowing him to lead her down the room toward the door at the opposite end. The mob of redheads made room for them to pass, but nobody followed.
“Us now, cha’trez.” Val Con’s voice was soft in her ear as he took her arm. “You did admirably.”
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “I’d rather sing for my supper, though. Any day.”
***
“I need a drink.”
Miri leaned against the wall just inside their private parlor, eyes closed against the scented darkness. Dinner had been horrible. Her place had been set with an arsenal of forks and tongs and spoons and knives, all of which, sleep-learning told her implacably, had a specific use. She’d fair busted her head while she’d waited for the first course, trying to remember the long list of foods that could and should be addressed with each implement.
Then the first course was served and she’d broken out in an ice-cold sweat as dish after unidentifiable dish went by. She’d snuck a look to see what Val Con was having; took a little of that and nibbled while she tried to do her conversational duty to the woman on her left. She’d left the wine strictly alone, terrified at getting even a little fuddled with all those new cousins watching and keeping score.
“A drink,” she said firmly. “A big drink.”
“Certainly,” Val Con murmured in her ear. He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. “Come sit on the couch, cha’trez . . . There. Red wine? White? Jade? Canary? I believe—yes, there is misravot, if you would prefer . . .”
Miri sighed, leaned back in the cushions and finally opened her eyes. Val Con had lit the low-lights—the ceiling sparkled with starring pinpoints; the carpet glittered like new snow.
“What do I know about wine? You pick.”
“All right,” he said, and poured pale green wine into two crystal cups. He brought them to the
The delm waved for her attention again, this time for a man of late middle years, hair aggressively red, hazel eyes hooded.
“Your cousin Dil Nem, son of your late uncle Kern Tiazan.”
Again the heavy nod, the exchange of names; the pass on to Val Con.
“Your cousin Ilvin, daughter of your cousin Jen Sar Tiazan, who is from clan at present.”
“Your cousin Kol Vus . . .”
“Your cousin . . .”
Miri lost count, very likely lost names, after the first dozen or so. Her head was beginning to ache with all the cool, polite faces and she started to want a slug of kynak. She gritted her teeth and bowed kinship to tel’Vosti, damn him: “Your uncle, Win Den tel’Vosti, son of Randa Tiazan and Pel Jim tel’Vosti.”
There was another blur of names and faces after him; the next she took clear note of was the last.
“Your cousin Alys, daughter of your cousin Makina Tiazan, who is from clan at this moment.”
Alys, who would be “very well,” but never a Kea Tiazan. Alys, who they were going to offer as a contract-wife to Val Con, when she came of age.
She made her bow, very serious, and stood tall, all three and a half feet of her, curly, orange-y hair held down by the brute strength of three formidable-looking combs. The brown eyes shone with something past curiosity or even friendliness and Miri caught her breath. She’d seen that look on recruits, sometimes, the ones who fancied themselves “in love” with the commander.
“Cousin Miri,” she piped up, “I’m happy to see you.”
Oh, hell. Like she didn’t have enough trouble without an elf hooking onto her. Miri returned the bow with matching dignity.
“Cousin Alys, I am happy to see you.” She made the backhand wave toward Val Con and repeated the weary formula for the last time, moving the kid along. She wanted that drink bad, she thought, and looked up to find Emrith Tiazan watching her, something like approval in the lines of her face.
“Appropriately done,” the old lady said. “We now go in to dinner. Win Den, attend me, by your grace.”
tel’Vosti stepped forward and offered his arm, which she took, allowing him to lead her down the room toward the door at the opposite end. The mob of redheads made room for them to pass, but nobody followed.
“Us now, cha’trez.” Val Con’s voice was soft in her ear as he took her arm. “You did admirably.”
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “I’d rather sing for my supper, though. Any day.”
***
“I need a drink.”
Miri leaned against the wall just inside their private parlor, eyes closed against the scented darkness. Dinner had been horrible. Her place had been set with an arsenal of forks and tongs and spoons and knives, all of which, sleep-learning told her implacably, had a specific use. She’d fair busted her head while she’d waited for the first course, trying to remember the long list of foods that could and should be addressed with each implement.
Then the first course was served and she’d broken out in an ice-cold sweat as dish after unidentifiable dish went by. She’d snuck a look to see what Val Con was having; took a little of that and nibbled while she tried to do her conversational duty to the woman on her left. She’d left the wine strictly alone, terrified at getting even a little fuddled with all those new cousins watching and keeping score.
“A drink,” she said firmly. “A big drink.”
“Certainly,” Val Con murmured in her ear. He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. “Come sit on the couch, cha’trez . . . There. Red wine? White? Jade? Canary? I believe—yes, there is misravot, if you would prefer . . .”
Miri sighed, leaned back in the cushions and finally opened her eyes. Val Con had lit the low-lights—the ceiling sparkled with starring pinpoints; the carpet glittered like new snow.
“What do I know about wine? You pick.”
“All right,” he said, and poured pale green wine into two crystal cups. He brought them to the
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