A faint movement distracted me as Oria elbow-crawled up to my side. Her profile was outlined by the light from those faraway torches as she looked down on the castle below.
"I'm sorry, Oria," I breathed.
She did not turn her head. "For what?"
"All our plans when we were growing up. All the fine things we'd have had after we won. Making you a duchess--"
She grunted softly. "That was no more than dream-weaving. I don't want to be a duchess. Never did. Well, after my fourteenth year, I didn't. That was you, wanting it for me."
For the first time a flicker of emotion broke briefly through the aching numbness around my heart. "But when we talked…"
She rested her chin on her tightly folded fists, staring down at the castle. I could see tiny reflections of the ruddy torches in her eyes, so steady and unblinking was her gaze. "The only way for me to be a noble is to become a scribe or a herald and work my way up through the government service ranks, and I don't want to write others' things, or to take records, and I don't want to get mixed up with governments--with the kind of people who want to rule over others. Seems like the wrong people get killed, the nice ones. I want…" She sighed and stopped.
"Tell me," I said. "We can dream-weave once more."
"I want to run a house. You can that--make life comfortable, and pleasant, and beautiful. My dream was always that, or partly that…"
Once again she stopped, and this time the gleam of the torches in her eyes was liquid. A quick motion with her finger, a lowering of her long lashes, and the gleam was gone.
"Go on," I said.
She dropped her head down. "You never saw it, Mel. You're just what Mama calls you, a summer flower, a late bloomer."
"I don't understand."
She breathed a laugh. "I know. That's just it! Well, it's all nothing now, so why not admit what a henwit I've been? There's another way to be an aristo, and that's marriage. I never cared about status so much as I did about the idea of marriage. With a specific person."
"Marriage," I repeated, and then a blindingly new idea struck me. "You mean--Branaric?"
She shrugged. "I gave it up three summers ago, when I realized that our living like sisters all our lives meant he saw me as one."
"Oh, Ria." Pain squeezed my heart. "How I wish our lives had gone differently! If Bran were alive--"
"It still wouldn't have happened," she murmured. "And I've already made my peace with it. That's an old dream. I'm here now because Debegri will do his best to kill our new dreams." She nudged me with her elbow. "Truth is, I rather liked being heart-free last summer, except you didn't notice that, either--you've never tried flirting, much less twoing. You just dance the dances to be dancing, you don't watch the boys watch you when we dance. You don't watch them dance." She chuckled softly. "You don't even peek at the boys' side at the bathhouse."
I reached back in memory, realized how much I had neglected to notice. Not that it had mattered.
My cold lips stretched into a smile. "The boys never looked at me, anyway. Not when they had you to look at."
"Some of that is who you are," she responded. "They never forgot that. But the rest is that you never cared when they did look at you." But I didn't say that. Instead, I turned my eyes to those four figures in their steady pacing and let my mind drift back to old memories, summer memories. How much of life had I missed while dedicating myself to Papa's war?
"I'm sorry, Oria," I breathed.
She did not turn her head. "For what?"
"All our plans when we were growing up. All the fine things we'd have had after we won. Making you a duchess--"
She grunted softly. "That was no more than dream-weaving. I don't want to be a duchess. Never did. Well, after my fourteenth year, I didn't. That was you, wanting it for me."
For the first time a flicker of emotion broke briefly through the aching numbness around my heart. "But when we talked…"
She rested her chin on her tightly folded fists, staring down at the castle. I could see tiny reflections of the ruddy torches in her eyes, so steady and unblinking was her gaze. "The only way for me to be a noble is to become a scribe or a herald and work my way up through the government service ranks, and I don't want to write others' things, or to take records, and I don't want to get mixed up with governments--with the kind of people who want to rule over others. Seems like the wrong people get killed, the nice ones. I want…" She sighed and stopped.
"Tell me," I said. "We can dream-weave once more."
"I want to run a house. You can that--make life comfortable, and pleasant, and beautiful. My dream was always that, or partly that…"
Once again she stopped, and this time the gleam of the torches in her eyes was liquid. A quick motion with her finger, a lowering of her long lashes, and the gleam was gone.
"Go on," I said.
She dropped her head down. "You never saw it, Mel. You're just what Mama calls you, a summer flower, a late bloomer."
"I don't understand."
She breathed a laugh. "I know. That's just it! Well, it's all nothing now, so why not admit what a henwit I've been? There's another way to be an aristo, and that's marriage. I never cared about status so much as I did about the idea of marriage. With a specific person."
"Marriage," I repeated, and then a blindingly new idea struck me. "You mean--Branaric?"
She shrugged. "I gave it up three summers ago, when I realized that our living like sisters all our lives meant he saw me as one."
"Oh, Ria." Pain squeezed my heart. "How I wish our lives had gone differently! If Bran were alive--"
"It still wouldn't have happened," she murmured. "And I've already made my peace with it. That's an old dream. I'm here now because Debegri will do his best to kill our new dreams." She nudged me with her elbow. "Truth is, I rather liked being heart-free last summer, except you didn't notice that, either--you've never tried flirting, much less twoing. You just dance the dances to be dancing, you don't watch the boys watch you when we dance. You don't watch them dance." She chuckled softly. "You don't even peek at the boys' side at the bathhouse."
I reached back in memory, realized how much I had neglected to notice. Not that it had mattered.
My cold lips stretched into a smile. "The boys never looked at me, anyway. Not when they had you to look at."
"Some of that is who you are," she responded. "They never forgot that. But the rest is that you never cared when they did look at you." But I didn't say that. Instead, I turned my eyes to those four figures in their steady pacing and let my mind drift back to old memories, summer memories. How much of life had I missed while dedicating myself to Papa's war?
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Crown Duel ]
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