The Will of the Empress

4

It’s one thing to know Sandry is wealthy, thought Daja when the gates opened and guards bowed them into the courtyard of the Landreg town house. I’m wealthy, after all. So’s Briar, for all he keeps it to himself. And it’s even one thing to know Sandry’s a noble, a clehame. I always thought I could handle it. Now—I’m not sure I can handle this.

“This” was the sprawling marble pile that was the Landreg home in the capital. Two-thirds of it wasn’t even in use at present. Sandry’s mother’s family—whose title passed to daughters and sons—had not lived there in years; her cousin Ambros’s family seldom stayed there. “This” was also what looked to Daja like a small army of servants and men-at-arms, tricked out in matching liveries, lined up on the house’s steps and in the courtyard, bowing or curtsying as Sandry walked past. “This” was gilding on the edges of the furniture inside; hardwood floors polished like glass; tapestries glinting with gold and silver thread; branches of candles hung with crystal drops. Even the rooms prepared for the other mages seemed like suites for royalty, with heavy brocade drapes and plush, intricate carpets. The baths assigned for the use of Sandry and her guests were luxurious works of porcelain, marble, and crystal.

If Daja hadn’t been so overwhelmed herself, the sight of Tris mincing her way through such elegance like an offended cat might have given her a bad case of the giggles. Tris had never liked a display of wealth, Daja remembered now. She approved of spending money only on books and the tools with which to work magic.

That first evening at supper, watching Tris handle her gilded cutlery as if it were red-hot, Briar said abruptly, “Why’d you ask for a room all the way at the top of the house? Some poor girl has to go climbing up all those stairs to get you to come down and eat. If you were on the same floor as Sandry and Daja, or on the ground floor with me—”

Tris glared at him. “I like it higher up, if it’s all the same,” she said flatly. Then she charged the subject. “Sandry, I thought your cousin, Lord—Saghad—Ambros was going to be here to meet you. To start showing you around your holdings and so forth.”

Sandry looked up from the note she was reading. “He was, but this says there was a minor emergency on the estate that he had to attend to. He says he’ll be back soon, and apologizes that things aren’t in better order. I have a reprieve from the account books.”

Briar snorted. “What’s his notion of ‘better order’—perfection? This place is spotless.” He eyed his sorrel and spinach soup. “Now, here’s an odd combination of plants.”

“I warned you about Namornese cooking,” Daja said. “It takes getting used to, but I love it.”

“Anyway, didn’t you tell the Traders you actually drank tea with yak butter in Gyongxe?” asked Tris, trying the soup. “I wouldn’t talk about odd food, if I were you.”

“It was really cold, and the fat helped,” Briar said. He tried the soup, frowned, and tried another spoonful. When the maid was finally able to take his bowl, it was empty. She leaned over a little farther than necessary to remove the spoon he had used, earning herself a grin and a wink from Briar.

“Don’t you start,” Sandry told him when the maid had left the room. “I don’t want you bothering the servants here.”

“I already talked to the housekeeper,” murmured Tris.

“I don’t bother them,” Briar said lazily, his eyes glinting through his lashes. “But if they appreciate my attention, I’m hardly going to hurt their feelings.”

“Did you used to be this way?” demanded Sandry, glaring at him. “I don’t remember you being this way.”

“They say you travel to gain experience,” Briar said, and yawned. “That’s what I did.”

Daja was relieved when a footman brought in a plate of trout cooked in wine and began to serve it. It feels so strange to be talking about experience—sex—with them, she realized. I don’t see why Briar keeps plunging in. I tried the kissing, and the petting, that time in Gansar, and that other time in Anderran. It just felt ... awkward. That one boy smelled of sweat, and the other one had chapped lips. But Briar likes it. Lark and Rosethorn like it. Frostpine likes it. I wonder if Tris ...

She sneaked a look at Tris. The redhead had a book in her lap and was reading it between bites.

Perhaps not, with Tris, Daja thought. You’d have to get her attention first, and she’d probably hit you with a book. She looked up and met Sandry’s dancing blue eyes. Sandry had noticed that Tris was reading at the table, too.

Daja grinned. At least some things are still familiar, she thought. And at least Sandry is still Sandry, whether she lives in a marble pile or no.

They spent the next day apart, indulging in their own interests and business. While they had been able to get away from each other within the confines of the caravan, they had still been kept to the company of their fellow travelers. For Tris and Briar, accustomed to long hours of solitude, it had been something of a trial. Daja, used to working with those who shared her forge, and Sandry, surrounded by her uncle’s staff and household, still welcomed the chance to brace themselves for their presentation at court.

All of them explored the open parts of the rambling house, its gardens, and some of the High Street shops that lay beyond its gates. Briar went as far up the hill as the beginning of the palace walls before he ambled back to Landreg House in time for lunch. In the breezes that flicked over the Landreg walls Tris caught a glimpse of him as he inspected both the vines adorning the walls of some of the other noble town houses and the faces and figures of the women he passed.

Tris frowned and closed her eyes until that puff of air had blown past her. She had requested an upper room of the house to get glimpses of the city, maybe even of activity on the Syth, not of Briar doing the things that Briar normally did these days.

“And that goes double for him smuggling a girl into his room last night,” she told Chime, who sat on the balcony rail beside Tris, grooming a rear paw with her tongue. “Do you know what the housekeeper told me? She said her girls are careful about baby-making, and none of them are fool enough to fall in love with a mage. I hope she’s still so even-minded about it by the time we leave!”

Chime looked up at Tris, making an anxious clink. Tris sighed. “Oh, I know he plays fair and doesn’t promise anything he doesn’t mean. Rosethorn would have made sure of that. I just wish it was more to him than, just, just play. It ought to mean more, don’t you think?”

When Chime did not answer, Tris looked at her and smiled reluctantly. “You haven’t the least idea of what I mean, have you? And silly me, for asking you such questions!” She picked up Chime and turned to stare into the wind from the Syth again. The empress and her court were out riding on a beach to the northwest—the wind carried her images of Berenene’s unforgettable, laughing face and those of her courtiers: Quenaill the mage, the angry huntsman of a day ago, a buxom young woman with glossy brown ringlets, a blond man with eyes like turquoises, and other men and women in their twenties and early thirties, attractive and vivacious. They rode well, managing their horses in hard sand and soft, laughing silently and chattering. Any shreds of talk came too far behind the images for Tris to bother with.

They’re as pretty as a flower bed, she thought, running her fingers over Chime’s wings. I don’t belong with people like that. I don’t belong in a house like this. How can I do any good for His Grace here? I’m just a merchant’s daughter in clothes my rich friend made for me. I doubt it will come to lightning and cyclones with this crowd—more like powder puffs at fifty paces. What possible danger can they offer that I could protect her from?

She turned abruptly and took Chime inside.

Sometime after midnight Briar roused to the sound of horses arriving in the courtyard behind the stable. Curious, and hungry, he pulled breeches on over his nightshirt and went to the kitchen. Sure enough the cook Wenoura was there, a robe over her own nightdress, setting a teapot to boil. She was on good terms with Briar already: He always made an effort to get to know the cook. Without hesitation she ordered him to put out glasses and saucers, since he knew where they were, and take down three plates from a cupboard. Briar obeyed as she bustled around the huge kitchen, producing a slab of cheese, a pot of preserves, a loaf of dark bread, and a ham.

As Wenoura sliced the ham, a footman opened a rear door, letting in a disheveled man. Briar moved back into the shadows for a quiet look as the footman helped the new arrival to remove his gloves and mud-splashed hat. He had already removed his boots and outer coat in the mud room. Fellow must have ridden here in a hurry, to get mud on his hat, Briar realized.

“They’re to see the empress in the morning, Saghad,” the first footman said.

“That’s to be expected,” replied the new man in a quiet, precise voice. “Though you’d think she’d be allowed a week or so to rest before the court nonsense begins.”

The cook, now slicing bread, looked at Briar in the shadows, then shrugged. She wasn’t about to say there was a stranger present.

The newcomer worked kinks out of his neck. He wore a blue indoor coat and tan pants, crushed from time in the saddle. Broad-shouldered and wiry, he was about three inches taller than Briar. Like Tris, he wore brass-rimmed spectacles, and his eyes were bright blue behind them. His heavy gold hair was cropped just below his ears. It framed a fair-skinned face mildly scarred from some childhood pox, with a long, straight mouth and a long, straight nose. He had Sandry’s eyes and determined chin. “Wenoura, you’re a lifesaver,” he told the cook as she set food on the long kitchen table. “I didn’t stop for supper.”

“I’ll heat a soup if you like, Saghad Ambros,” she replied, glancing again at Briar.

Briar took the hint. “Saghad Ambros, hello,” he said, stepping out into the light to greet Sandry’s cousin. “I’m Briar Moss. I think Clehame Sandrilene told you she would bring friends.” As the older man struggled to rise, Briar grinned. “Please don’t stand. I’m not the kind of person people get up for. And I’d never put myself between a man and his supper.”

Ambros looked quizzically at Briar. “I hear you’ve caused people to stand quite precipitously, Viynain Moss,” Ambros said dryly. “But I appreciate the permission. My legs still feel as if I’m in the saddle.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Briar asked, settling on the bench across the table from Ambros. “I’m sure it was most of it lies. I’m a reformed character these days.”

Ambros chewed and swallowed his mouthful before he said, “My cousin only wrote me that you are a very fine plant mage and her foster-brother,” he replied quietly. “Are you a reformed plant mage or a reformed foster-brother?”

Briar was about to straighten him out when he glimpsed the wry glint in Ambros’s eyes. Well, well—a Bag with a sense of humor, he thought, using his old street slang term for a rich person. “Reformed from everything,” he said, as straight-faced as Ambros.

The cook snorted.

“I am,” insisted Briar in his most earnest tone of voice. “My approach to the ladies is strictly worshipful. I celebrate our mutual devotion to Qunoc. It’s a great deal of work, but I don’t begrudge it in the least.”

“Well, if you fertilize any of the fields you till, I hope you will fertilize the mothers’ purses as well,” Ambros said. “A man should take responsibility for what he sows.”

“Responsibility is my middle name,” Briar told him, earnestly. “Droughtwort is my other middle name.” The droughtwort herb rendered any man who ate it sterile for days. Briar was determined not to sire any children who might be left parentless if something happened to their mothers.

Ambros raised pale brows at Briar. “So thoughtful,” he remarked. “How old are you?”

“We think eighteen,” Sandry announced from the doorway. “Even Briar isn’t sure. Cousin, I didn’t expect you to come tonight, or I would have stayed up to greet you.” She came forward with her hands outstretched, her robe and nightdress billowing around her slender form.

Ambros almost toppled his bench as he scrambled to his feet. “Clehame Sandrilene,” he said as he took her hands in his. Bowing, he touched her fingertips to his forehead.

“Don’t be silly, Cousin,” Sandry said, kissing both of his cheeks as he straightened. “With all you have done for me over the years, it’s I who should be touching your fingertips.”

“The honor is mine,” Ambros said, kissing her cheeks in return. “I have the correct frame of mind for the work, and your people are not shirkers.”

Briar filched a slice of bread and began to eat it in bits, watching as Sandry coaxed her formal cousin back to his place and his meal. How did she know he’d come here? wondered Briar. Her rooms are on the other side of the house. She was yawning when she went to bed.

He rubbed his eyes as if he were sleepy, when in fact he was adjusting his mind for the trick of seeing finer magics. He could not avoid seeing plain workings, like the kitchen spells to preserve foods and spices and discourage fire. Those were common to any house that could afford them. It took discipline, practice, and skill to view the more subtle handling of magic that he and his sisters had learned in recent years. Once he thought he had the trick of it, he looked at Sandry.

For a moment, he saw it: a spider-thin web of silver that spread around her body, vanishing into the walls, ceiling, and floor all around her. A blink, and the web vision was gone. Briar arched his eyebrows.

You’ve been lazy, he scolded himself, taking some cheese. Time was you could do that and have it last. You’d better practice, my lad. Maybe you’ve been chasing girls and letting your skills go, but with an empress and her great mages to watch, you’d best brush up fast.

It was funny, but the teacher-voice in his head always managed to sound like Rosethorn.

Briar leaned back, eating his cheese. Sandry’s not snoozing at the reins, he thought, listening as Sandry and Ambros went through the polite dance of a first noble meeting, as if they weren’t wearing bedclothes and rumpled garments. She’s thrown a web throughout the house, with her at the middle. If anyone who touches it doesn’t belong, she’ll know.

Without interrupting Ambros and Sandry, Briar got to his feet and returned to his room. How long had it been since he’d meditated? He was going to start tonight.

Sandry noticed that Ambros’s eyes followed Briar when he left. When Ambros looked at her again, she said, “I saw you’d introduced yourselves.”

“He’s very handsome,” Ambros replied, his eyes guarded.

Sandry giggled. “I’m sorry, Cousin, but if you knew how ridiculous that is,” she explained. “You’re not alone, of course. People have said it about Briar and all of us girls at one time or another. But believe me, nothing could be further from the truth. It really would be like courting a brother or a sister.”

Ambros smiled crookedly. “Forgive me for falling into common error, then,” he apologized. “But you should brace yourself, because you will certainly hear it enough at court.”

Sandry shrugged. “The court may gossip as it likes,” she said, propping her chin on her hands. “It’s of no consequence to me. If I meant to stay, I would take an interest, but I don’t.”

That made her cousin sit back and frown at her. “You don’t mean to stay?”

“I told you in my last letter that I would be going home in the fall,” replied Sandry. “You did get my letter?”

Ambros rested his knife and fork on his now-empty plate and sipped his glass of tea. “Yes, but ...”

Sandry waited. He seemed just like his letters: dry and fussy, methodical and precise. She knew he never made overblown promises about the wealth from a harvest or a new mine. If anything, he would tell her to expect less than the funds that usually arrived. If something concerned him, she was prepared to pay attention.

Finally he said, “The empress believes you will change your mind. She is certain of it.”

Sandry smiled. Is that all? she thought. “I’ll explain,” she promised, patting her new-met cousin’s hand. “I hardly ever say things I don’t mean. Once she gets to know me, she’ll understand that.”

“Would staying here be so bad?” he asked. “You have hardworking tenants who would adore you, and lands that require the touch of their rightful mistress. True, we have some malcontents, but they are everywhere. We could easily double our mule breeding if you were to grant us the monies to do so. And grain dealers need a hand on the rein. I caught Holab trying to short-weight us on barley twice last year. If you don’t watch them every second ...” He caught himself and smiled. “I’m sorry. My wife says I will talk estate affairs until people’s ears fall off if I’m not stopped.”

“But why should I take your place, when you know and love the holdings so much?” Sandry asked. “You know every inch of the ground, and my mother hardly ever even visited. You know those people by name, and you look after them. My uncle Vedris needs me. What will I have to do here? Be a butterfly while you continue to do all the work?”

“You will have a husband to take care of such things,” Ambros replied steadily. “The empress wishes you to be an ornament of the court. No doubt you’ll be given a place there, Mistress of the Imperial Purse, or chief lady-in-waiting—”

“With maids who are far better informed than I am about palace ways to do things,” Sandry told him. “I will be bored silly. And you know the saying, ‘A bored mage is trouble waiting to unfold.’ As for marriage ...The man I marry would have to be very unusual, Cousin. I doubt I will meet him at court.”

Ambros sighed, then covered a yawn. “Forgive me,” he apologized.

Sandry got to her feet; Ambros did the same. “Forgive me for keeping you from your bed when you’re obviously worn out,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you up a moment longer. Will you be coming to the palace with us tomorrow?”

The older man smiled thinly. “Her Imperial Majesty does not invite me to intimate court occasions,” he explained. “She once informed my wife that I was as dry as a stick and not nearly so interesting.”

“Then she doesn’t know you at all,” Sandry replied firmly. She dipped a polite curtsy. “Good night, Cousin.”

Ambros put a hand on her shoulder. “Clehame—”

“Sandry,” she told him. “Just Sandry. Lady Sandry, if we’re in public, I suppose. But Sandry the rest of the time.”

“Sandry,” Ambros said, his eyes direct, “the empress can be quite determined.”

Sandry smiled brightly at him. “She seems very reasonable. I’m certain that, when the time comes, I won’t have to insist.”