Prologue
Year One After the War of Aranor
"Lillian, I won't ask again! Put down your blade!"
I stepped forward, filled with fury. But I held my body composed, loose, and relaxed. This, I knew, was my only opportunity for justice. For vengeance. A hundred people stood about me in the feasting hall, all looking on in astonishment.
From the side, I saw one of the guests begin to inch toward me.
With a quick snap of my arm I drew a line across his shoulder, and he stumbled back, crying out.
"Do not dishonor yourself or your host by interfering with an honorable duel, my lord."
The man looked at me with wide eyes, hands clutching his shoulder as darkness welled between his fingers.
I moved my gaze back to the man who stood before me. A man I had once trusted so deeply.
"By the charges I have brought against you, I challenge you to a duel," I spoke in as bold a voice as I could manage. "Do you accept, or do you fear to fight a woman?"
I saw his lips turn into a snarl and tensed, raising my blade. He moved suddenly, stepping forward, and I shifted my stance and prepared to meet his attack. All my training and all I had learned was being tested now, and I felt my body grow ready and alive.
His strike was so fast and so strong that all I felt was a ringing pain that shot up my arm as his blade struck mine and knocked it aside. I gasped and stumbled back.
He moved quickly, bringing his body up against mine. For a moment we were together, his eyes burning into mine, and then I felt his leg catch my knee.
I fell and hit hard, the breath leaving my lungs, and I opened my eyes to see him half-kneeling over me, one hand grasping my shirt and pressing into my chest.
His face was very near to mine, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek, smell the wine he had taken.
"It is over, Lillian."
My sword was gone, my breath was being crushed from my body. A mist filled my vision. I stared into his ferocious gaze, unable to believe that I had been so easily vanquished. After all the struggles, all the plans, it had come to this. My blade against his, with the eyes of the public to witness the truth.
How could I have lost?
Part One
The Threat of a Wedding
Chapter One
It is a memory which has always stayed with me. Of the fading twilight, and the soft murmur of crickets just awakening from their daytime slumber. My bare feet, tender on the cool stones of the walkway. The white dress, made for me by my mother, catching the light which comes only with darkness. It transformed me, for a moment, into a creature of dreams.
I felt giddy as I twirled, and breathed in the warm summer night’s air. It was wine to me, and I was dreaming of my prince dancing in my arms. My feet caught on something in the darkness, and I laughed as I stumbled onto the dark lushness of the lawn. I could feel the grass through my fingers, and I raised my head up to better hear the soft music which drifted through the garden, carried on by the night’s warm breeze.
“Lillian …”
I suppose that the memory lingers because of everything that transpired that night, because of the way in which that evening embodied all that would come after. If someone, in that moment, would have told me that the coming year would see me venturing to a foreign land, crossing steel with men, and sailing alongside pirates, I would probably have laughed.
No. Such things had lived only in my fantasies.
When I rose and straightened my dress, a light attracted my eyes from deep in the garden. Then another. I leaned forward and peered into the shadows. Wisps? Might they be real? They were faint, almost imperceptible, hidden back behind the willows.
I tilted my head and looked through the branches, seeking another glimpse of the tiny sparks. The magic of the night caressed me, beckoning with seductive offerings. In that moment the real world seemed far away, and murmurs of stories whispered through my mind, speaking of distant lands, of romance and strange beasts and foreign tongues.
A chill sparkled over my flesh.
There was a sound, and I cast a quick glance up to the lights of the house. Forms moved behind the windows, the shadows of servants. Behind the glass was everything familiar. Ramaan, my father, just sitting to table. Vivien, my mother, sipping from a glass of wine and looking vaguely annoyed. And Hunter and Rasha, my dear brother and sister, coming into the room.
It was the evening meal, and I should be washed and sitting.
Slowly, I returned my gaze to the place beyond the willows.
“Hello?” I asked. “Is someone there?”
I took a few cautious steps closer and searched for the form of someone hidden, something to account for these strange apparitions.
But all seemed dark, quiet.
“Hello?” I asked again, and then my breath caught in my throat, for in answer to my words another light appeared, drifting slowly down and away. They were there, dancing just beyond the edge of the glow thrown by the house, just at the place where I might leave my family and go to places all my own, places they could never follow.
I was nineteen then, but still young of mind, which befitted a girl of my upbringing. I had little knowledge of the truths of the world, of the ways of men and women, of gold and wars. But think it foolish or not, I felt, for a moment, that there was some doorway before me, some choice which would never come again. That I was standing at a bridge between worlds.
And I suppose I was, though the passage would not be so merciful as I thought.
There was the beating of my heart in my breast, the night air in my lungs. With trembling fingers I reached up and parted the veil of willow leaves.
“Lillian!”
I let the willow branches fall, concealing whatever lay beyond. My mother stood on the patio, calling out into the darkness.
I took one look back into the willows, and then I ran lightly, scooping up my slippers and hopping on one foot and then the other as I put them on. When I gained the patio, mother was already shaking her head and passing in through the glass doors.
“I found her,” I heard her say with the tone she reserved only for inept servants, and brushing back my hair from my face, I stepped inside into the midst of conversation.
"The Tellin and the Lucine should be arriving in port within the week," my father said as he put his goblet to his lips. He glanced up and smiled warmly at my entrance. "I would like for you to peruse their cargoes and make sure the shipment is up to our usual standards. Just take control of the situation as you have done with me a thousand times before."
"Not quite a thousand, father," and Hunter gave a sigh of uncertainty, taking a small stuffed mushroom offered up by a passing servant. His eyes closed as he savored the juicy delicacy. When he opened them again and saw me, he smiled. "Thank the gods you're finally here, Lillian! Don't you know not to keep a hungry sibling waiting? I figured if you didn't come soon I would have to track you down and fix you for supper!"
I laughed and made for my chair, but something grabbed at my skirt, and with a start I looked down. Fine, pale fingers adorned with gold lifted the edge of my dress and then tossed it disdainfully away.
"You're absolutely filthy, Lillian! Taking as much care of your new things as you always have, I see." A sneer transformed the otherwise lovely face of my darling sister, and she passed her jeweled hand haughtily through her red locks.
"Have a seat, child," my mother said. She was little concerned with the condition of my new dress, stained green from the lawn. She was used to my wild ways.
The red velvet chair was there as always, and I settled into it, shooting Rasha a narrow-eyed glance. The small dining room glowed warm in the candlelight and the bard's song echoed off the marble walls. Smells drifted in from the kitchen, scents rich and dark, and I could hear the clatter of silver.
"The servants have all been hired for tomorrow's party,” my mother said. “I’m having them arrive shortly after sunrise."
"So early, mother?" Hunter asked. "I can never sleep through their noise."
"They will have difficulty enough, my dear, in attempting to ready everything with only that much time at their disposal. Be glad they are not here this evening, as well. Rasha, you should be home from your performance by noon, yes?"
My sister nodded assent and mother went on.
"I've had the flowers arranged to be brought at . . ."
"Please, Vivien," my father interrupted. "Allow us. Hunter and I can pick them up after we check the silk warehouse. We need to look over the bolts again anyway. Hunter can never be too familiar with the art of judging quality, especially with his first solo disposition of cargo so soon arriving. We're also planning on perusing the finishing touches being made to Lord Marcay Dinerre's commission. I want him to have the ship of his dreams. If we have the flowers here by early afternoon, would that give you enough time?"
"That would be splendid, Ramaan."
I listened with only a small portion of my attention. As usual, the conversation was all concerning trade and persons of high standing and other matters of little interest. I let the sounds fade, and peered out the window. I could just make out the form of the willows . . .
"Perfect. And you, Lillian? Aiden Dinerre should be here tomorrow evening."
I blinked and looked over. "Yes, father . . ."
"As will Lord Jeran Goddard," broke in Rasha. "The word is that he will be bringing one of his falcons for a demonstration. His birds, I hear, are flawless in both appearance and training."
"Don't jest sister,” said Hunter. “Is he truly?"
"It is so, brother. Perhaps he would even let you wear the glove."
Father laughed, and there was something of impatience in the sound. "You truly favor those birds, don't you, Hunter? You should have been born nobility. Either that or a girl."
"A girl?" I burst out. Despite the fact that Hunter was the target, I was delighted to hear father weave one of his humors.
"Oh yes, Lillian. Then, like you, he could marry high and have a name and title without having to learn even a trifle about silks or ships or the nuances of trade."
"You imply, father," returned Rasha, "that being of noble standing is a simple task handed out like a present with no skill requisite in the taking. Might I be so bold as to challenge you, with mother as my example, and say that the task of being noble is one which requires training and refinement of behavior far beyond anything required by any merchant, whatsoever might be his trade?"
Mother smiled over at Rasha’s fine little speech. It was the sort of thing she loved to hear from her girls. She took a languid sip from her glass of Lydavian.
I took the moment to exchange a rolling of eyes with Hunter. Still, I couldn’t help myself. This was a thosuand times better than discussing business. I reclined in my velvet chair and spoke across the table to my sister. Though my speech could never match her flowery wording, I put on my best.
"But my dear Rasha, I think that father's point is simply that your noblemen are born with a title that can never be lost, while a merchant's skills must be constantly refined and honed lest they make some error in judgment that might allow a loss of silver, and thus a loss of their standing in the eyes of their peers."
Hunter laughed. He leaned forward, awaiting Rasha’s reply.
"There is no jest here, Hunter," Rasha returned, frowning over. "A nobleman can fall in grace just as easily as any merchant. Every moment calls for perfect behavior and refinement."
"You are suggesting, my lovely sister," I countered, "that if King Goddard burped at the table, he might be dethroned?"
Rasha's eyes narrowed, and her crimson-stained lips parted slightly to reveal shining teeth. "What do you or Hunter know of noble bearing anyway? You idiot."
Hunter could hold back no longer, and he threw back his head and laughed heartily. "You're right, Rasha,” he said. “After all, your own bearing is so impeccable. We'll watch you and learn."
Even mother smiled at this, but at the same time she raised a hand, and I knew the conversation was finished. "But come now, children, there is no need to fight amongst ourselves. Let us take this night and practice the refinement Rasha speaks of, so that the morrow finds us presenting ourselves favorably to our own peers."
"I agree," and father lifted his glass of soft, pink wine. "Tonight and tomorrow, let us act as high as our name implies. And then," and he looked into the eyes of each of us in turn, "and then, we can go back to being ourselves again, only the family Murae, rich as any noble family but without the need to constantly prove it. Agreed?"
My brother and I met his glass with ours as mother swept hers out over the table expansively. Rasha simply tipped hers in the direction of the others and took a deep swallow.
"Let us have a deeper wine," said Rasha. "Zandivish, perhaps, in honor of the Dinerres."
"Ah, but a moment, my daughter," mother said. "Have you forgotten that there’s something I wish to show all of you this evening?"
Hunter and I exchanged another glance, and Hunter rolled his eyes again. But then father suddenly stood and we all turned our attention to him.
He rested his hands on the thick wood of the table. "I alone have some idea of what your mother is about to show, for my ships brought the makings of it from across the sea. But even I have seen only the raw, untouched materials. Your mother's skills, I’m sure, have taken things so far beyond that, I can only imagine what we are about to witness. Show it to us, my love, though I doubt if any dress, however fine, could make you more beautiful than you already are."
Mother pursed her lips and looked across the table at father. There was something strange in her gaze, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
Then she turned and called out into the hall beyond. The usual nonchalance colored her tone – it was considered noble to be vaguely disinterested in everything.
"Malin?” she said. “Bring it in, dear."
I leaned forward, interested despite myself. Malin stepped in, his silky black hair in a long braid. He was attired in one of the embroidered vests which mother always insisted he wear, and he pushed a cloaked dress form in front of him. What was hiding beneath?
"Very good, my dear," mother said. She stood and brushed by Malin, her grey eyes glancing first at the covered dress and then at her audience. I could see her excitement, betrayed in the quickness of her movements, in the play of her breasts as her lungs took air.
"This," mother said, "is the perfect marriage of my skills and your father's efforts." She smiled at father. "This," and she pulled the covering until it was taken by its own weight and pooled on the floor, "will be the envy of all."
I couldn’t help myself. I drank in the sight, and my breathing went shallow. All about me the others gasped.
It was silk, of course. Father's silks, brought across the sea from lands as far off as Moraithe and Jedda Felsuin.
"It’s all of Jeddan silk." It was Hunter, his voice awed, and he stood and walked over to admire it. “And this. This is fire silk, is it not, father? How did you acquire this?"
Father laughed with delight. "Enough gold will fetch you anything, my son."
I rose to my feet and went forward with the others. I stood from each angle; I reached out and ran my fingertips over the smooth fabric. Its textures were smooth as cream, and its colors . . . its colors I could hardly describe. The Jeddan silk, thick and lush, was of purest white. But the white of Jeddan silk does not lie still, and even in the breath of air stirred by our movement, I could see it dance and play with the light, sending waves and shimmers of shadow down its length. And the fire silk, only a legend until now, lay just beneath the white. It was masterful. The most valuable silk in the world, and it was almost hidden. Still, through the translucence of the white, the fire silk burned, its liquid amber imparting a strong, warm glow.
There was a statement here. But wasn’t there always? The statement that mother was wealthy enough to own such silk and still not feel the necessity of displaying it overtly.
Of course, with mother's strawberry hair, I knew it would be nothing less than exquisitely beautiful, as well.
"It’s beautiful, Mother," said Rasha, and she ran her delicate fingers down one sleeve. "Beautiful."
"I know, my dear. I designed it."
"This, then," broke in father, "is the fruition of a moon's work, and more than a little trouble in attempting to procure the materials. You are pleased, my love?"
"Pleased is only the beginning, Ramaan," mother purred. "This will make my name unsurpassed in the realm of design. If I might dare to make a divination, I suggest that our house will be more than twice as esteemed, and this is not to mention twice as wealthy, after the passing of another year."
"This fire silk, father," murmured Hunter, his fingers gently lifting it from inside the dress. "This is real?"
"Indeed it is. And as your mother predicts that she will find her name much in demand after she displays this dress on the morrow, I foresee as well a sudden demand for this certain breed of silk, which only we can procure."
"Ha!" laughed Rasha. "Now let us see the noblemen come scratching at our door just for the wooing of us, Lillian!"
I smiled back, and felt a welling of delight. We had always been rich, but the fantastic visions which now grew inside my head seemed more fabulous than any I had dared to dream of before.
"Fire silk," I whispered, and I reached out to touch at it as Hunter nodded me closer. It was smooth and impossibly soft in my hand.
"Yes Lillian," father said. "Fire silk. Let us sit, and I will tell you of it."
"My lord?"
I glanced over. It was Malin, addressing father. "Shall I take it from the room?"
"Oh no," father replied. "Leave it here. Leave it here for us to contemplate and enjoy as we eat. Though to truly show it off, we should see it on Vivien. Perhaps after dinner?"
"Of course," mother replied, and at her gesture we all made our way back to our seats. "Help to serve us tonight, Malin."
"Yes, my lady."
I watched him as he stepped off into the kitchen. He was only a servant, of course, but I couldn’t help but notice the broadness of his shoulders, the young power in his stride. He paused at the door for a moment and held it open. Lacia, the younger serving girl, passed by with a plate of five stuffed crabs, and I noticed a small, almost hidden smile pass between them. Lacia set the crabs carefully on our plates, and I wondered at what secret worlds might lie all around me, hidden just beyond my view.
Then father leaned in, and as he began to speak in that special, sonorous tone, I knew that he was about to tell a story.
He took a bit of the sweet, white crab on the point of his platinum stiletto and chewed it thoughtfully. I winced, for he was about to talk while still chewing – a reminder of his more rustic roots. It was one of mother’s peeves, but this time, at least, she said nothing.
"Fire silk,” he said, “comes from Jedda, of course, but even there it is a great rarity, reserved only for the high nobility. I have heard rumor from my sailors that for a commoner to possess even a scrap of the material is a great affront to his superiors. But whatever the case, it is something more than mere silk, and is possessed of strange qualities."
I let my mind come to life with his words, recalling all the old stories I had read in which the silk played a part. Jeddan tales, with their mystical clarity and potent lessons interwoven so skillfully into the words that one often didn’t realize until much later that the story had left a seed of wisdom or longing inside.
"To begin with, it is incredibly strong. Their warriors string their bows with it, and it’s said that they never break. And then there’s the fact that it keeps the wearer cool when summer's heat is threatening, and warm when winter's chill comes. Thus it is esteemed not only for its beauty, but for the comfort it gives unto its wearer."
"I have heard as much," I said with delight. "There was a story I remember reading, of a Jeddan warrior who saved his love from a terrible storm with only a tattered piece of fire silk to protect her from the ice and wind. They were at sea, and . . ."
"Well, legends are legends, Lillian," father interjected, and I felt myself sink, but only a little. None of the others loved stories as much as I.
"But I can attest to the fact that it does indeed impart an uncanny heat or coolness, however one should need. It’s almost as if it were alive."
"And is it true," I asked, "that it is made just as any other silk, save that it must be woven in the total darkness of deep caverns, and then only by women who are blind, having given their eyes to the sun?"
"So it is said," father replied. "Though one of my sailors reported to me that he overheard some of the silk merchants talking of how it was really made. I have spoken before of Aryn, who speaks a bit of Jeddan himself?"
"Of course."
"Aryn heard the Jeddan merchants speaking of the fire silk, and he thought they mentioned something in regard to wasps, and how it was made by some variety thereof."
"Ah," said Hunter. "That seems to hold more of a truth to it, I would wager."
"But my dear," mother said to him. "Just because we have little of magic here in the Old World does not bar its practice in the other provinces. If you suggest such a mundane origin, how do you account for its mystical properties? Does it not, Lillian, serve as a powerful tool in many Jeddan stories?"
"It does."
"As for me, I find its raw beauty to be its most enchanting feature," said Rasha. Here eyes were affixed on the dress with a covetous gaze. Her crab lay half eaten on her plate – half eaten, and probably hardly tasted.
"Whatever the case," father said, "it is we who possess it, and your mother who will wear it on the morrow."
I heard dishes being set to platters, and sat back in my chair. Dinner was arriving at last!
"If the demand soars, and I do indeed profit from it, the two of you will not be long in having dresses of your own."
Rasha clapped her hands in that girlish way of hers, but it was just then that Malin, Lacia, and Madera emerged from the kitchen, and my thoughts were taken by food.
The plates were set carefully onto the table, and the heat and steam of roast duckling tickled my cheeks. I held up my glass for more wine, smiled at Malin as he poured it, and took a deep swallow.
I almost choked. I had been so intent on noticing Malin’s dark eyes that I had not even noticed that my sweet Lydavian had been replaced with the potent burgundy of Zandivish.
Zandivish. The wine vinted by Aiden’s family in Masalla. How could it be that I was staring at the eyes of a common servant, when a man like Aiden was intent on wooing me? After all, had mother not told us, over and over, that a man was more than his looks? More than his bearing and his personality? That a man was also made up of title and wealth, and that only a foolish girl would give her attentions to the handsome rogue?
"I'm starving," I said, and I leaned in close to Hunter. I flashed my eyes at him, and he knew it was time.
"As am I," he replied, and he leaned in even closer. "You should have been there today, sister."
This was my favorite time. When Hunter and I would let the rest of the world fade from our thoughts as we sat at the dinner table and shared the stories of the day. It was not that I lacked love for my parents or my sister, but only that Hunter, like myself, was still untamed. He still had that streak of wildness and imagination. Of magic, even. And dared I even to dream? Perhaps of faerie blood?
"Salen and Orinn dragged me down to the docks,” he said, his voice quiet and conspiratorial. “At first they were hinting that they wanted to see the new ship father was building for the Dinerres. But by the time I had the salt scenting my lungs, they were laughing and teasing me about women. They, being commoners, obviously place no stock in chastity, and as you well know, my lack of experience gives me no end of trouble from them."
Mother looked over at this remark through the corner of her eyes. She had keen ears when the subject interested her, even if she knew that this conversation was mine and Hunter’s.
"We are only merchants, Hunter," she smiled. "You know that you have no such bounds placed upon your chastity."
Hunter blushed as the focus of the table turned to him.
"Whisht, mother," I scolded gently. "Hunter and I are speaking of love."
Mother laughed and went back to her conversation. "Now, Ramaan . . ."
I leaned in again.
“Thanks,” Hunter said.
“Not at all, dear brother. Now on with your tale!”
"Alright. So they tell me that they haven’t come to see any dull ship, but instead to see if they could spot a . . ." and he grasped my hand and drew me in so that he could whisper in my ear. "A twylah."
"A twylah?" I gasped with wide eyes.
"Shhh. They didn't mean to engage her services or anything of that nature. But they just wanted to see one."
"You jest."
"I do not."
"And so? Did you find one?"
Hunter laughed. "How am I to know? They don't exactly advertise themselves."
"Of course they do!" I said. "Do crimson stained lips and painted eyes mean anything to you?"
Hunter gave a conspiratorial smile again and whispered even softer than before. "Are you implying that your own mother . . .?"
I peeked over at mother, who was speaking with delight to father and Rasha as the three of them looked at the dress. Indeed, mother's lips were stained with a full, deep red, and her eyes, though subtle, still bore the marks of a rather nocturnally seductive application of cosmetics. I looked back at Hunter and couldn’t stifle a laugh. I slapped him softly on the side of the head.
"Have some manners."
"And that isn’t all," Hunter went on. "Then they took me to the alchemist's shop, and Orinn pretended he was a mercenary looking for a place to buy poison."
"Did it work?"
"Of course not. Even if the alchemists do make it, Orinn hardly has the aura of a mercenary."
I giggled, recalling the one time I had met Orinn, with his thin build and curly brown locks. He had struck me as a jester, and perhaps a bit of a troublemaker, but he certainly was not in the least intimidating.
I ate, listening to the clatter of silverware on mother’s fine porcelain, smiling as I heard mother and father and Rasha discuss Rasha’s part in the play. Hunter went on about his day's adventure, recounting to me all of Orinn's silly antics and Salen's approaches to women. Never, I mused, had things been so gay, so delightful. Since father had started the ship-building business three years ago, our family had grown steadily in wealth and prestige. And now, with the promise of the firesilk . . .
Even mother’s noble bearing was faltering tonight as she sipped more wine and spoke to father and Rasha again of what the silk might bring. And Rasha! When had her smile ever been so dazzling?
The bard's music was lilting, soft, and pleasant, and my belly grew warm with wine and duck. Father spoke of Lord Dinerre's ship, being built for Aiden’s father. It was a merchant-class vessel which would be larger than most of its peers, and certainly more beautiful. It was to be lacquered and painted, and the great mainsail emboidered with the Dinerre's crest of a rampant gryphon cutting with its claws at lush vines of grapes. The ship would not be a pleasure craft, I knew, but would serve instead to bring Aiden or his father, Marcay, safely to and from Masalla, where their relations vinted the famed Zandivish wines.
"And Myrian will be bringing something very special tomorrow,” father said. “I have promised him that I would tell none of you what it is, but suffice it to say that it is a gift only for us, and comes in the form of a wine."
"Ah," sighed Hunter. "No man has better taste in gifts than Myrian Raselle."
I laughed. "Except for last time, remember? That puppy did not exactly sit well with you, did it mother?"
"The thing was terrible! I would have had to hire another servant just to clean up all of the little disasters it left behind!"
"But still," said Hunter. "Father could not have chosen a better man with which to share his silk trade."
"And it is left for you, Hunter," father reminded, "to develop a better relation with him. Once you take the trade routes from me, you will need to be more than a mere acquaintance to him."
"I know. But one thing at a time. I have enough to worry about with this next shipment on my mind."
Father smiled a knowing smile. "It will never become simple, Hunter."
"Of that, you have made me well aware."
There was something in Hunter's voice. Nothing but a soft weariness, but still it frightened me. It sounded too much like father’s voice. Was it truly Hunter's dream, I wondered, to own father's ships and be well-wed and of high name?
Mother called out for an after-dinner glass of wine, and Madera swept through the door to take our requests.
"Blueberry, please," I said when Madera approached. I sat back, eager for the sweet, rich, liqueur-like wine. It was one of my favorites. The others voiced their desires as well, and Madera left into the kitchen, where already Lacia and Malin were washing the first of the dishes.
"Well, my dear, will you honor us with a display of the dress?"
"Of course, Ramaan."
"I’m so excited!" piped in Rasha. "I haven't been to a ball for moons. And with Lord Jeran to be there . . ."
I laughed inside. Jeran Goddard had too high a name for any of us to even dream of gaining his attentions! Hunter apparently agreed.
"Do you think he would even look at you?” he asked. “You’re not even nobility!"
"Many men," Rasha replied haughtily, "look at me."
I had to agree. My own auburn hair, as long and glossy as it was, did not attract attention as did Rasha’s shining red. And how often had I heard it said that Rasha was the fairer, and how often had I noticed that Rasha's body, now fully bloomed, had emerged fuller and rounder of hip and breast than my own? It was my eyes alone, which sparkled with a green oft compared to clear emeralds, which gave me my only advantage over my sister. Rasha's blue contrasted beautifully with her red locks, but even I could see that they lacked the depth of color I had been gifted with.
But if Rasha attracted more suitors, it was just as true that they did not stay for long, for Rasha, though beautiful, was quick of tongue and perhaps, I mused, a bit lacking in the way of wit or humor. My own suitors proved much more devoted. Sometimes, too much so . . .
"Now," Vivien said, and then she glanced over as Lacia emerged from the kitchen with an empty tray to be filled with dishes, and Malin not a breath behind with a tray of wines.
"Now,” she went on, “there is one other thing I have for all of you tonight. A surprise, if I may." She smiled stunningly across the table at father, and I could see the pleasure in her features. For her, I knew, this was as potent a dream as any fantasy that I ever envisioned in the depths of the gardens.
"This, Ramaan, even you have not yet seen."
And then mother's beaming features were tainted for the smallest moment as Lacia's hand slipped on her plate and the dish clattered back to the table, scattering small bones and scraps of food.
Mother regained her composure instantly and reached out to reassure the young servant, but all I saw were Lacia's eyes as they went wide and stared down into Vivien's lap. Mother met the servant's gaze and followed it down to where a bone from the duck had found its way onto her leg.
I gasped as mother shot up, her features losing their dignity to a look of anger. On her grey, silken dress, one of her most lovely creations, I could see a smear of grease, dotted with the red of cranberry sauce. Lacia put up her hands as she stepped back and away. I could see the fear in her eyes.
What could I do but cry out as I saw the inevitable disaster? I reached forward, a hopeless gesture, for Lacia was too far away. Mother saw it too, and her face turned to a look of horror.
Lacia, backing away, stumbled, and her hand flew back, reaching for something to catch herself on. Malin raised the tray of wines, attempting to clear it, and then Lacia was up against him, and the tray tilted to the side.
I closed my eyes until I heard the shattering of five delicate glass goblets on the floor.
When I opened my eyes again, there was a moment of breathless silence.
And then, rage.
Mother screamed, lurching foward as her hand flew out to strike Malin across the cheek. Her rings took flesh, and Malin stumbled aside, putting his hand to his face. Beneath his fingers I could already see the blood welling.
"You idiot!” mother screamed. “You bastard!"
Then Malin stumbled back as mother struck him again and again. He dared not defend himself. Everywhere, it seemed there was screaming and shouting.
I could only stare at the firesilk dress, its perfect white blackened now with wines of crimson and deep purple, so dark against the precious fabric that it looked like blood.
"Vivien!" father shouted, and he strode powerfully into the melee and caught her by the wrist. Malin turned and fled for the kitchen, into which Lacia had already made good her escape.
"You, Ramaan! You’re the one who demanded to keep it here! You idiot!"
Mother’s graceful face twisted into a horrific mask as she struggled and thrashed until she wrenched her hand free of father's grip. "Didn’t you know that something like this would happen?!"
And then, almost humorous in its delay, I saw Rasha's breasts lift as she stared at the dress, and her mouth opened wide. I set my hands over my ears.
Rasha screamed again and again, her voice piercing, and mother turned to slap her across the face, shouting out her own incoherent words.
"Vivien!" father shouted again, and he grasped mother’s shoulder and pulled her back so hard that she stumbled and fell to her knees.
"Don't hurt her, father!"
Hunter shoved him away from mother, who lay collapsed on the ground, weeping hysterically.
I sat frozen.
Rasha fled the room, crying with her hand held to her reddened cheek. And mother, regaining enough of her composure to rise to desperate action, stumbled to her feet and began to drag the dress form and dress toward the kitchen, screaming out for her servants to bring water.
Angry words shot back and forth between father and Hunter, father angry that he had been pushed, and Hunter accusing him of trying to injure our mother.
There was splashing and weeping in the kitchen. There was a firm demand that Hunter go to his chambers. There was father, storming from the room. And then, I was alone.
I sat, silently, staring out at the remains of the meal on the table. My eyes found the shattered wine glasses, the puddled wine with two wet wheel tracks leading toward the kitchen.
The bard, almost forgotten over by the fireplace, played softly, but the melody was haunting, and his eyes were cast down toward the floor. His lips, as though singing, moved almost imperceptibly, but I could hear no words.
I rose, my vision blurring as the tears began to well, and stepped out into the garden, my body hollow and my throat tight.
I did not even look to the willows.