Remembering what the Princess had told me about histories, I had to grin as I replaced the dusty book for what would probably be another hundred years. So now where?
Of course I knew where.
I turned toward the corner, staring at the tapestries to the little alcove where the memoirs for the heirs were stored. Bunching my skirts in either hand so they wouldn't rustle, I moved stealthily to the tapestry and stood listening. No voices, certainly, and no sounds beyond the drumming of the rain against the near windows.
So I lifted the tapestry--and looked across the room into a pair of familiar gray eyes. Dressed splendidly in black and gold, as if for Court, Shevraeth knelt at the desk, writing.
For the third time that day, my face went hot. Resolutely reminding myself of my promise not to initiate any quarrels, I said, "Harantha Chamadis. Thirav Astiar. The Treaty of Seven Rivers. Is there a record?"
Shevraeth didn't say a word. He lifted his pen, pointed at a particular shelf, then bent his head and went right back to his task. For a moment I watched his pen traversing swiftly over the paper in close lines. Then my gaze traveled to the smooth yellow hair, neatly tied back, and from there to the lines of his profile. For the very first time I saw him simply as a person and not as an adversary, but I did not give myself the space to gauge my reactions. The curl of danger, of being caught at my observations and once again humiliated, caused me to drag my gaze away, and I trod to the shelf to which I'd been directed.
A few swift glances through the books, and I found the memoirs of the queen of that time. A quick glance through showed the names I wanted repeated on a number of pages. Gripping the book in one hand and brushing back a strand of my wet hair with the other, I said, "Do you need my reason--"
He cut in, lightly enough: "Just put it back when you're done."
He kept his gaze on his writing, and his pen scarcely paused. Scrawl, dip, scrawl, dip.
Two or three more words--then the pen stopped, and he glanced up again. "Was there something else?" he asked. Still polite, but very remote.
I realized I'd been staring for a protracted time, my reactions frozen as if behind a layer of ice. I said in a rush, "The party, for Bran and Nee. Do you--should I send you--"
He smiled just a little. "It would cause a deal of talk if you were to avoid inviting any of my family."
"Oh." I gulped. "Yes. Indeed."
He dipped his pen, bent his head, and went back to his task.
I slipped out the door and fled.
Of course I knew where.
I turned toward the corner, staring at the tapestries to the little alcove where the memoirs for the heirs were stored. Bunching my skirts in either hand so they wouldn't rustle, I moved stealthily to the tapestry and stood listening. No voices, certainly, and no sounds beyond the drumming of the rain against the near windows.
So I lifted the tapestry--and looked across the room into a pair of familiar gray eyes. Dressed splendidly in black and gold, as if for Court, Shevraeth knelt at the desk, writing.
For the third time that day, my face went hot. Resolutely reminding myself of my promise not to initiate any quarrels, I said, "Harantha Chamadis. Thirav Astiar. The Treaty of Seven Rivers. Is there a record?"
Shevraeth didn't say a word. He lifted his pen, pointed at a particular shelf, then bent his head and went right back to his task. For a moment I watched his pen traversing swiftly over the paper in close lines. Then my gaze traveled to the smooth yellow hair, neatly tied back, and from there to the lines of his profile. For the very first time I saw him simply as a person and not as an adversary, but I did not give myself the space to gauge my reactions. The curl of danger, of being caught at my observations and once again humiliated, caused me to drag my gaze away, and I trod to the shelf to which I'd been directed.
A few swift glances through the books, and I found the memoirs of the queen of that time. A quick glance through showed the names I wanted repeated on a number of pages. Gripping the book in one hand and brushing back a strand of my wet hair with the other, I said, "Do you need my reason--"
He cut in, lightly enough: "Just put it back when you're done."
He kept his gaze on his writing, and his pen scarcely paused. Scrawl, dip, scrawl, dip.
Two or three more words--then the pen stopped, and he glanced up again. "Was there something else?" he asked. Still polite, but very remote.
I realized I'd been staring for a protracted time, my reactions frozen as if behind a layer of ice. I said in a rush, "The party, for Bran and Nee. Do you--should I send you--"
He smiled just a little. "It would cause a deal of talk if you were to avoid inviting any of my family."
"Oh." I gulped. "Yes. Indeed."
He dipped his pen, bent his head, and went back to his task.
I slipped out the door and fled.
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Court Duel ]
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