“Does Wyllym wish to court me, I’ll consider his proposal. But I’ll not marry to order. I shall make up my own mind.” She looked toward her father, avoiding her stepmother’s angry stare. “With my father’s permission.”
Lord Bartram nodded.
Vanysse glowered, and Amadis held his expression in check—ever the diplomat. Fendur smiled his oily smile and said, “Then of course it must be so.”
Bartram laughed and said, “My daughter, eh? She’s a mind of her own.”
“And it would take me away.” Abra rose. “Do you forgive me, but I’d find my bed and think on all you’ve said.” She kissed her father on the cheek and bowed to the others. “Good night.”
Per Fendur rose from his chair to make the godly sign; Abra quit the room thinking that she was well done with such prevarications and politics. Did her father wish to marry some western whore, that was his affair. It had, after all, been a marriage of politics—to unite the eastern borders with the west—but perhaps her father loved the woman, for all Abra could not see how. But … She climbed the stairs from the chamber to her bedroom, thinking.
There were two images dancing in her mind like remembered dreams.
One was of a tall young man with long brown hair caught up in a tail … a beard … broad shoulders, and eyes that stared at her as if she were a jewel he could not properly comprehend. Cullyn, he’d said his name was.
And he lived in that sorry little shack in the forest, where she had rested and wondered how anyone could live so poorly.
The second was less distinct because it was far more akin to a dream: a matter of eyes on her as she rode the woodlands, aware of some watcher who seemed observant and benign, as if she were protected under the gaze she could not see, but still felt safe, as if nothing untoward could happen to her while she was watched. It was a feeling of utter safety, and at the same time a feeling of simplicity, as if the politics of Kandar meant nothing to the forest, and that she might enter it and find peace—as she thought Cullyn had—and forget Kandar’s problems, and hers.
She thought that would be a fine thing as she climbed to her chamber and prepared for sleep.
Save she could not: she felt too exasperated, thinking of how Khoros and the Church would decide her life for her, as if she were nothing more than some minor piece in a Game of Stones. Amadis would agree with them, as would Vanysse—if for no other reason than to rid herself of a troublesome stepdaughter. Only her father took her side, and no doubt even now Per Fendur and Vanysse were bent on persuading him to their wishes—and the gods knew, that woman could bend Bartram to her desires. Abra ground her teeth in frustration, and found herself not at all composed for sleep. She rose and poured a glass of wine, pacing her bedroom as she wondered if it would have been better to remain in the dining chamber.
Only that would have curtailed whatever significant conversation it was that Fendur sought with her father. Per had made it clear his words were not for her ears—as if she were some silly slip of a girl who would not understand.
But there were ways to circumvent the oily priest’s secrecy: the keep was well built, with fireplaces and chimneys that heated all the rooms, and ventilation shafts built into the stone, rising from the ground floor to the upper reaches. Sometimes, from her bedroom, she could hear conversation from below—if it was summer and the hearths not lit, so that she could kneel and set her head inside the fireplace.
Which she did now.
“… madness,” she heard her father say, his voice a whispery echo in the chimney shaft. “They offer us no threat.”
“They are always a threat,” came back Per Fendur’s solemn answer, incanted as if he spoke a catechism. “They are godless savages who’d steal our land.”
Abra heard her father splutter. Then: “Steal our land? It seems more like that you’d steal
Lord Bartram nodded.
Vanysse glowered, and Amadis held his expression in check—ever the diplomat. Fendur smiled his oily smile and said, “Then of course it must be so.”
Bartram laughed and said, “My daughter, eh? She’s a mind of her own.”
“And it would take me away.” Abra rose. “Do you forgive me, but I’d find my bed and think on all you’ve said.” She kissed her father on the cheek and bowed to the others. “Good night.”
Per Fendur rose from his chair to make the godly sign; Abra quit the room thinking that she was well done with such prevarications and politics. Did her father wish to marry some western whore, that was his affair. It had, after all, been a marriage of politics—to unite the eastern borders with the west—but perhaps her father loved the woman, for all Abra could not see how. But … She climbed the stairs from the chamber to her bedroom, thinking.
There were two images dancing in her mind like remembered dreams.
One was of a tall young man with long brown hair caught up in a tail … a beard … broad shoulders, and eyes that stared at her as if she were a jewel he could not properly comprehend. Cullyn, he’d said his name was.
And he lived in that sorry little shack in the forest, where she had rested and wondered how anyone could live so poorly.
The second was less distinct because it was far more akin to a dream: a matter of eyes on her as she rode the woodlands, aware of some watcher who seemed observant and benign, as if she were protected under the gaze she could not see, but still felt safe, as if nothing untoward could happen to her while she was watched. It was a feeling of utter safety, and at the same time a feeling of simplicity, as if the politics of Kandar meant nothing to the forest, and that she might enter it and find peace—as she thought Cullyn had—and forget Kandar’s problems, and hers.
She thought that would be a fine thing as she climbed to her chamber and prepared for sleep.
Save she could not: she felt too exasperated, thinking of how Khoros and the Church would decide her life for her, as if she were nothing more than some minor piece in a Game of Stones. Amadis would agree with them, as would Vanysse—if for no other reason than to rid herself of a troublesome stepdaughter. Only her father took her side, and no doubt even now Per Fendur and Vanysse were bent on persuading him to their wishes—and the gods knew, that woman could bend Bartram to her desires. Abra ground her teeth in frustration, and found herself not at all composed for sleep. She rose and poured a glass of wine, pacing her bedroom as she wondered if it would have been better to remain in the dining chamber.
Only that would have curtailed whatever significant conversation it was that Fendur sought with her father. Per had made it clear his words were not for her ears—as if she were some silly slip of a girl who would not understand.
But there were ways to circumvent the oily priest’s secrecy: the keep was well built, with fireplaces and chimneys that heated all the rooms, and ventilation shafts built into the stone, rising from the ground floor to the upper reaches. Sometimes, from her bedroom, she could hear conversation from below—if it was summer and the hearths not lit, so that she could kneel and set her head inside the fireplace.
Which she did now.
“… madness,” she heard her father say, his voice a whispery echo in the chimney shaft. “They offer us no threat.”
“They are always a threat,” came back Per Fendur’s solemn answer, incanted as if he spoke a catechism. “They are godless savages who’d steal our land.”
Abra heard her father splutter. Then: “Steal our land? It seems more like that you’d steal
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