Clear Water, One Drop of Red
“Her Grace Nivella was generous enough to take that bastard youth in and raise him into a fine knight. He may be Fillion of Anhar by birth, but it was Grand Duchess Nivella who made a knight of him.”
It had not been generosity. She had kept him as a hostage against the Duke of Anhar. Even so, Princess Elin, Nivella’s own daughter, was so bright and winning that people drifted about her as if spellbound. The woman at the princess’s side was there to keep them from clinging. Not a sister, then. A kinswoman, more likely, or a favored lady-in-waiting.
Princess Elin caught sight of Ilesin and said something to the woman beside her. The woman lifted a hand and shook her head, but Elin pressed a cup into her fingers and poured the wine herself. What she meant to order was plain enough. Ilesin watched that side of the hall and waited. Just as he had expected, the woman took up the cup and came toward him. She crossed the floor with the grace of a swan on the water, bent at the waist in the manner of a lady of the Arandian court, and spoke.
“My liege, Her Highness Elin of Arandia, sends her wish for your victory.”
She raised the cup the princess had given her.
A laugh nearly escaped him. Yes. Cheering for a perfect stranger would sit better on the tongue than cheering for one’s own father’s bastard. Ilesin took the cup from her hand.
“I’ll take it, with thanks.”
Her eyes were studying him closely. Seeing the triumphant light in them, he asked,
“Have we met before?”
“No.”
She answered at once. Too quickly, which only made him doubt her.
“Those are the eyes of someone hoping very much to be recognized.”
“Did it seem so to you, my lord?”
She put on a look of surprise, as if the notion were absurd. She herself, he thought, must know better than anyone how transparent she was.
Ilesin was used to being looked at, and used to being wanted. People liked him without warning or disliked him without warning, and sometimes they liked him and then turned, or disliked him and then came around.
She was none of those things. He had never met anyone who looked him so squarely in the eye. Her irises were a pale pink, the color of clear water with a single drop of red petal-dye stirred through it. Thick, deep-gold hair had been braided and dressed with a simple band. The design was plain, but the silk was of the highest grade, worked with coral. Straight shoulders and an upright back struck him as much as the rest, and she moved with the elegance and swiftness of a trained dancer. Manner and bearing both said she was no ordinary maid. High-born, and thoroughly taught.
“Who are you?”
“Elsgite of Arandia. Lady Marca, cousin to Her Grace Grand Duchess Nivella and a mage, is my mother.”
The mage Marca. The name alone flashed like lightning through the mind. Archmage and Sage, the one they called Nivella’s Burning Spear. Peerless in destructive magic; Hisnil shook at the mere sound of it. If this was that woman’s daughter, and so familiar with Elin, heir to the grand duchy, then her place in the Arandian court would be no small one.
“A victory for whom? For me? Or for your liege?”
“For both. Your gladness is my lord’s gladness.”
“Still. I imagine a perfect stranger winning would be preferable to one’s father’s bastard.”
For an instant her face clouded. Ilesin knew at once that he had touched something he should not have. Seeing his dismay, she spoke quickly.
“Please, enjoy the rest of the feast. Everyone will be wishing you victory.”
“Thank you.”
She turned away a little unsettled. Before she did, her eyes flicked briefly somewhere else. Resentment and sorrow showed in them, and were gone.
Ilesin looked where she had looked. A young man stood there: hair a coppery red, handsomely made, neat, the sort of face that invited liking. Unlike Ilesin, who left people flustered as if they had been tempted, this youth looked like a man who would receive a mild, even favor from everyone.
“That young knight is Fillion of Anhar.”
The attendant supplied it at once. Only then did Ilesin realize the man was still attached to him.
“The lady just now is that young man’s betrothed.”
Something twisted, faintly, in Ilesin’s gut. He could not have said why, but a dull ache climbed up from low in him.
“Grand Duchess Nivella allowed her own niece to be betrothed to her husband’s bastard?”
The attendant smiled as if he were about to impart a great secret.
“That lady is not Sage Marca’s true daughter. The Grand Duchess has a bastard sister, and Elsgite is that sister’s child. Bastard blood, so they gave her as a bride to a bastard. If she were Sage Marca’s own daughter, would they ever? They’d be looking at some king or prince, at the least.”
Ilesin smiled and looked at him.
Who does this little shit think he is, running his mouth like that.
“And where is Elsgite’s birth mother now?”
“Married off to a farmer and sent away, they say. Must not have had much talent. Still, heirs are precious in a grand ducal house, so they brought the daughter back, entered her under Marca’s name, and raised her. A girl who used to tend pigs, now received as a lady of Arandia. Hardly a bride Fillion or his father would be pleased to have.”
“Ah.”
Ilesin drank a mouthful of the wine she had left him. Sweet and fragrant, as if he held a peach candy on his tongue.
“This tournament will be Fillion’s chance to free himself of that woman. Even second place will bring a flood of proposals from proper houses, not bastard blood.”
So Fillion, a bastard himself, disliked his betrothed because she was a bastard’s daughter.
The resentment and sorrow that had welled up, unhidden, in her eyes were proof of how that man had treated her. He would know her heart. That was why Elsgite had been unable to keep the wound covered at all.
When the music shifted from concert piece to dance, the Emperor offered his hand to the Empress. She rose smiling and took the first dance with him. Nearing sixty, the two of them were fleeter and finer to look at than their princess, who was nearly forty. The princess, heir to the throne, sat ringed by the three princes she had borne and watched the hall with a bored face. After dancing with his wife, the Emperor invited the two knights who would fight the final.
“Well? It might clear your head.”
Ilesin declined with courtesy.
“Forgive me. I don’t know the dances of this country.”
“Try it once, all the same. It ought to be amusing.”
“If they saw the spectacle of me dancing, the purse on me would only swell. No one who’d watched that performance would still think I could win.”
“Put that way, there’s nothing for it. Come, Sir Fillion. Grant the honor to one of the ladies cheering for you.”
Attention gathered on Fillion. Ilesin looked toward Princess Elin and her party. The woman’s eyes wavered with fear. While the whole hall watched in malicious expectation, Fillion asked not his betrothed but the daughter of Count Grazen. A tremendous bride: a dowry from her parents, and a title yet to come from her father. He had chosen her on purpose in his fiancée’s place. It was blatant.
Ilesin felt filthy, as if something sticky and foul had clung to the soles of his feet.
Irritating little wretch. Who do you think you are.
When the tune ended, Fillion took his partner’s hand, went before the Emperor, and bowed. The Empress praised them as a beautiful pair. The Emperor glanced at Ilesin and said,
“It seems only fair to give his rival a turn as well, Lady Glyzen.”
Lady Glyzen looked at Ilesin with expectant eyes. He was the sort of young man—pale, soft-skinned, spectacularly handsome—at whom strict parents flinched and their daughters secretly swooned. Because of that extraordinarily fine face, much the same rumors followed him wherever he went. A tremendous rake. He seduces a woman with a look alone. He amuses himself only with married women. And so on. Greet a woman, and by the next day he was a libertine who had slept with her and every one of her friends. Talking with men was no safer. For Ilesin, who found empty pleasure a nuisance, it was an unjust name; but a face and a nature so at odds meant the slander had to be worn before anyone would look for the truth.
He rose and said,
“Your Majesty, if there is to be a dance, I’ll be the one to ask.”
“Quite right. A knight has his dignity. Go on, then. I find myself curious which young lady will share in your good fortune.”
Lady Glyzen’s face brightened. Ilesin walked straight past her to where the ducal kin of Arandia were seated.
“Sir Ilesin?”
Elsgite could not hide her surprise, or her pleasure.
Seeing that look, he was certain.
So we have met. I don’t remember it now. I hope that someday I will.
When he stood before her, the shadow left her face and only a bright smile remained. A very dear smile. Fillion, for not falling in love with a woman like this, was a son of a bitch.
“I’ll allow it. Whatever brought you.”
“I’ve come to ask for a dance.”
“Shall I grant you five in advance?”
“Isn’t that leave given rather easily?”
“Look in a mirror. Half the girls seated here will envy me, and half of that half will hate me.”
“Which leaves half of the half.”
“There are always people whose tastes differ.”
She asked Princess Elin’s leave, then took Ilesin’s hand and rose.
“May I ask why you’re requesting a dance?”
“Does it need a reason?”
“This time it does. Otherwise I’ll decide you’ve fallen for me and go reserve the wedding hall—while I’m drawing up the guest list. So tell me. Quickly.”