Wedding Page 7

  Men who are naturally vir, like Dominic, usually have a male companion as well as a wife. A man who remains single, unattached to either man or woman, into adulthood and middle age is viewed as unusual, his manhood suspect. Among his household, Dominic’s peculiar situation, at forty unmarried and with no companion, was accepted, in much the same way that his father’s insanity and womanizing had been, with an unspoken allowance for the Aranyi temperament. Dominic’s high rank shielded him from obvious discrimination elsewhere, and his skill as a swordsman meant that, even drunk, most men would keep their thoughts to themselves. Still, spending twenty-five years as an adult in this atmosphere could only have exacerbated Dominic’s anger and sense of alienation.

  This time, with Magali, I laughed as if gossiping about a mutual acquaintance. “Margrave Aranyi will always want boys,” I said, shaking my head to suggest amused resignation, not yet ready to divulge the attraction this aspect of his character held for me. “Or men. It is his nature.”

  Magali laughed with me. “But he has decided to marry now. He never really wanted a woman before, except once. His companion’s sister.” She winked at me, letting her pleasure in reminiscing run away with her discretion. “She bore him a son, but he never offered marriage. And she was ’Gravina, Ndoko, a good match.”

  “Better than me,” I said, sudden hostility lowering my voice to a growl. I couldn’t help it; the words just seemed to pop out of my mouth. I had known of this woman—sister to the young nobleman who had been Dominic’s lover a couple of years ago—but only indefinitely, from Dominic’s truthfulness in telling me the basic facts of his past. Now, from the visual fragments I picked up in Magali’s memories, I had specifics. Thinking of Dominic with that Lady Melanie—fifteen years younger than me, tall and willowy, the kind of elegant, aristocratic beauty that is universally admired, not short and soft and round like me—I was ready to fight. Who or what I would fight, or how, I didn’t know, but my face must have shown bloody murder, because Magali let out a shriek and covered her mouth.

  “Oh, Lady Amalie,” she said. “I didn’t think– I didn’t mean—” Magali gasped and gulped, afraid she had ruined our relationship, and after so promising a beginning.

  I stared, my eyes refocusing from my thoughts of war, returning to this frightened woman of my own age. Once again my face had betrayed me. Magali was cursing herself for her unfortunate words, sure that she had enraged me with her reference to the Ndoko woman’s full ’Graven status and its contrast with mine, the illegitimate, half-’Graven orphan.

  It was becoming natural to play along with the role, and I seized the chance to get away from my darker thoughts. “It’s all right, Magali,” I said with fraudulent grace, forgiving an unintended insult for a false condition. “I know you meant no offense. But you see why I wondered if Margrave Aranyi could marry me, whether I would be a suitable choice for him.” I wanted to put my arms around her, dared not initiate contact, as she should not touch me, and sat back, helpless.

  Magali was pleased by my easy forgiveness, anxious to make amends. She waved her hand and lifted her chin. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Anyone can see your father was ’Graven. If he wasn’t man enough to own up to it, that’s no reason you should suffer.”

  I thought of my real, Terran, father, somewhat too fond of drink and not much of a success, but kind, and proud of my every minor achievement. Silently I apologized to his memory, transformed forever here into a neglectful ’Graven lord, not willing to trouble himself over the unwelcome girl his badly-treated and long-since discarded mistress had produced, too selfish to burden himself with acknowledging the child and giving her the coveted natural-born status that could soften an otherwise harsh life. I patted my belly where my own half-’Graven daughter was growing. “At least this one will know who her father is,” I said, thinking only of how cunning I was to speak in character.

  Magali’s mouth opened in astonishment. She had no adequate response to this revelation. Stupidly I had assumed that Eleonora had informed the household of my pregnancy, to shame me; I had not appreciated how my standing would rise with this news. Living in Dominic’s house, accepted by his family, I was already considered to be his betrothed. By carrying his child, I confirmed our marriage more surely than approval from the distant, faceless ’Graven Assembly. Eleonora would not have breathed a word, hoping for anything—a miscarriage, or that Dominic would tire of me before the baby began to show—that might make such an announcement unnecessary.

  Finally Magali found her voice, sneaking a look at my waist. “But when?” She had heard only that I had been cloistered in La Sapienza for six months.

  “In a travelers’ shelter,” I said. It did not occur to me to be shy, or to feign hauteur and refuse to tell Magali what she wanted to know. “We were trapped there for almost a week.” I could not say the name of Eris; let Magali think what she would of our imprudent behavior.

  Magali howled with laughter, leaning close to commiserate. “Men!” she exclaimed, both disgusted and awed. “They can never wait. My own Harald is the same. I was six months gone, and big as a house, before—” She thought of the ramifications. “Never fear. Lord Dominic will marry you in time. He won’t want another natural child, not after fathering one already.”

  Here was another side of the problem. I bowed my head, remembering my foolish thoughts at La Sapienza, when I had wanted to bear Dominic’s child without having to be involved in marriage. How complicated everything had become.

  Suddenly Magali reached over and did what I had wanted to do: hugged me tightly, patting me roughly on the back. The unexpected touch made me jerk, my body trembling with the temporary blockage of the electric circuit from my active crypta. Little sparks shot out of my extremities. Magali was clearly receptive enough to cause such a disruption. She released me after a moment, satisfied, having proven what she had known all along. “You have the gift,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

  I sighed. I wished that was all that mattered. Now I was trapped in all my lies. Betrothed to Dominic. Half ’Graven. “Lady Amalie.” As if to reinforce my discomfort, Magali echoed my thoughts, lifting her chin, her challenging tone reminding me of Dominic. “Be brave, my lady. To us you are Lady Amalie. Soon enough you will be ’Gravina Aranyi. No one can say a word against you then.”

  From that day on, Magali became my staunch friend and defender. She looked after me like a mother, checking in on me each morning, co-opting a maid to bring me breakfast in bed if she thought I looked tired. After the first time I decided to tell her that I disliked eating so early in the day, then realized pregnancy had changed me. My appetite, always robust, had increased to the point that I wanted all that food, first thing in the morning and last thing at night, the meat and the porridge, the spring greens and fruit, and especially the cheese. I vowed to stay strong, to bear a healthy child, whatever she would be at her birth, and I tried to feel worthy, as befit the future ’Gravina Aranyi.

  When Dominic had been gone a week I was reminded again of the reason for his absence, and what had caused the latest rift between us. My dreams one night were disturbed by the image of Eris, the lightning goddess of discord, blazing in the darkness. In the days that followed, my chest was tight with tension and my thoughts were oppressed by a looming sense of danger. With no physical enemy to fight, my muscles strained to constant readiness, I was edgy and bad-tempered, my movements clumsy so that I spilled things at the table and bumped into the sparse furniture. The telepathic cells of Eris and of ’Graven were dueling, and with so many gifted people at work, the ripples of static extended well beyond their immediate surroundings, to Aranyi and no doubt farther.

  Only one other being in the household shared my discomfort. Naomi was a witch—it was she who used the word, not disguising it in the euphemism of “sorceress”—a gifted woman from the forest who worked as a healer at Aranyi. She knew nothing of her father, had no family name, her only relative an equally solitary and gifted mother. Naomi c
ame from a long line of wise women, she told me, as proud of her unusual heritage as Dominic was of his.

  Alone among the castle’s inhabitants, she had not fully accepted me, had not fallen under the spell of this “Lady Amalie” I was becoming. Naomi knew well enough where I came from, and that I was no more ’Graven than she was. Like Lady Eleonora, she seemed protective of Dominic and his interests, deploring his attachment to a Terran. And, like Eleonora, she had no scruple about using her strong gift to find out the truth of anything or anybody that threatened her home. I was convinced there was little I could keep from her.

  Yet she let few secrets of her own escape. She had an aloof presence, tall and slim, with something androgynous about her, her height and rawboned limbs, her straight body with small breasts and narrow hips, although she dressed in conventional women’s clothes and had a woman’s name. It was as if she had chosen the female persona, not had it determined by anatomy or genetics. Even her age was a mystery. She had the unlined face and firm flesh of youth, but there was the wisdom and the cynicism of middle age in her mind. Her thick dark hair, always escaping from its clasp to wave around her head like so many snakes, her high forehead, prominent nose and determined chin gave her an intimidating look, and her green eyes with their clear, glassy third eyelids seemed to penetrate my consciousness the way Dominic’s did. Once I noticed it, I found the vague resemblance between her and Dominic unsettling.

  As the ’Graven forces battled the rebels, I sensed Naomi’s mind quickened to its aroused state, almost as if she could participate in the distant cell, along with Dominic and Eleonora and Josh, by linking with them in communion. She would take out a prism-handled dagger like mine, hold it up, but stop short of using it to bend the light into her eyes and, muttering and cursing, put it away. Lurking in the shadows of dim corridors or huddled in half-closed doorways, she watched me, gauging the effects of the conflict on my equanimity. Her eyes bored into me at meals from her own place in the great hall, but she would look down or away when I dared to meet her gaze.

  Despite her gift and the prism she possessed and undoubtedly knew how to use, she had not gone with the other telepaths. She seemed tied to the land of Aranyi, as if she could not survive too far from her native ground. Like a half-tame animal, a cat or a fox, she prowled between the castle and the forest, staying out for days at a time, coming in wet and rank for a hot meal and a bath when it suited her. Apart from the necessary observance of the daily eclipse, she was most active at night, preferring to sleep during the mornings, often taking dinner as her first meal. Unconcerned with her appearance or her reputation, she stalked proudly through the castle’s corridors, like the cat she so resembled, furtive by habit, not from fear, protected by her abilities and the awe they inspired.

  The awareness of battle and potential destruction made me recall my attempt to seduce Dominic before he left. I had been afraid for him, and afraid for myself at the thought of losing him. Yet now, ironically, with the evidence of war occupying my senses, I grew increasingly calm. Although I would not have dreamed of endangering Dominic by staying in communion with him at such a time, there was still some faint mental connection between us. I knew he was alive and unhurt, and hoped my placid exterior might be mistaken for ladylike self-control, if not courage.

  Without knowing it, I had passed an important test. I had behaved as any ’Gravina would when her man was at war. To fret and worry without reason would simply prove I had no crypta. If Dominic were dead or wounded I would know. Otherwise, all signs of battle should leave me unmoved. People noticed my few days of unease followed by the return of composure, my face losing its sternness, able to smile again, and were reassured. “The master is safe,” they told each other. “The rebels are getting the worst of it.” Even Naomi accepted it, giving a respectful reply to my greeting when we passed in the corridor. Whatever she found in my mind seemed to have forced a grudging approval from her, convinced her I was not faking—about my gift, at least.

  And while I brooded on my own problems, and remained secretly apprehensive over Dominic’s safety, I roamed the halls of the castle, and the grounds on pleasant days. Everywhere I saw the smiles, acknowledged the happy salutations to “Lady Amalie,” and wished I would be staying, to see the crops harvested that were being sown, to enjoy the newborn lambs on our dinner table, to taste the cheese that was aging in the dairy house.

  One rainy, cold day, I discovered a room I had overlooked on the ground floor. A young man was sitting at a desk, poring over a set of heavy parchment sheets, folded and bound together in a sturdy spine—a book. The pages were not printed like the books in Dominic’s library; they had handwriting on them, neat rows of penmanship traced on lines ruled onto the paper, with numbers in columns along the edge. The man was mumbling to himself as I peered in through the open door, and did not hear me. “Five hundred bushels of oats from Kwame’s farm, and three hundred from Ranulf’s, and two hundred and fifty from...” He turned a page, frowning. “But why does it say a thousand?” he asked the wall.

  I crept closer, my sandals silent on the stone floor, stealing a glimpse over the man’s shoulder as he pondered, pen in hand, a bottle of ink at his right. As I got near enough to read, I was intrigued to see that the alphabet resembled Terran characters, although in a more elaborate form that could be drawn by hand, given training and practice. It was script, designed so that all the letters connected to each other. A person would dip his pen in the ink and write as much as he could without lifting the pen from the paper. I made out a few words with difficulty—“farm” and “oats”—but the numerals were easy, the same as Terra’s. The 500 and the 300 and the 250 stood out clearly. On the turned page, the 1000 was big and confident, and wrong.

  “Because when you copied it over to the next page you wrote two hundred instead of two hundred and fifty,” I answered his question, startling the man so that he upset the bottle, spilling ink all over the desk and onto the floor. He swore and leaped to his feet, saw me, flushed bright red, bowed and gave the inevitable greeting to Lady Amalie, but looked gloomily at the mess.

  When a servant had been called and the worst cleaned up, he introduced himself: “Berend, Margrave Aranyi’s steward.” He collected himself enough to thank me for pointing out the error, which made him think. “You can read and write? And do arithmetic?”

  “A little,” I said. “I used to work in the offices of the Terran Protectorate.” I was getting smoother with the lies, knowing I could admit to the work, and to living among Terrans. It was being one that was inconceivable.

  With the mystery of the one thousand solved, Berend was happy to show me his work. I had observed so much industry, all within walking distance, aware that there was a great deal more going on a day or two’s ride away. I had no idea how it was all organized or recorded. Now I began to see the system. A couple of hours flew by while I learned the basics, recognizing the words in the elegant curling script, hearing them in Berend’s thoughts while his finger pointed to the characters on the page.

  The Realm of Aranyi encompassed servants, laborers, tenant farmers, freeholders and villagers. Servants and laborers lived in the fortress itself, or on nearby holdings, and did the work of Fortress Aranyi and its lands. They received wages in kind: room and board, clothing and food for their families, and an allotment of the realm’s goods. Tenant farmers, freeholders and villagers occupied their own semi-independent properties, keeping some of what they raised or grew, paying rent or making an annual contribution to the stores at Aranyi, and receiving portions of other commodities in return.

  It was fun, and educational, seeing all the goods that were produced here. The first settlers had brought with them the genomes to create an entire ecosystem, but had not been certain what sort of climate they would find on their new world. Luckily, although Eclipsis was cold and dark, it had a functioning sun, and life that had evolved only to the stage of rudimentary plants. Much quicker than anyone had dared hope, through a kind of punctuated equil
ibrium, those pioneers replicated the sort of alpine biodiversity that had existed in parts of Terra before the Great Climate Catastrophe reduced almost the entire surface to desert.

  By now Aranyi, like the other realms, grew or raised or manufactured just about every kind of food and material Eclipsis was capable of supplying. Grains and vegetables were farmed on the terraced fields; trees bearing fruit and nuts grew in orchards on the edge of the forest; a row of enormous greenhouses, fantastic in appearance with snow melting off their peaked roofs, gave us precious tomatoes, citrus fruits and melons. Sheep, goats and cattle roamed the mountain pastures under the care of Aranyi herdsmen, providing meat and milk, leather and wool, tallow and lard for baking, to provide light and make soap. There were many kinds of domestic fowl, for eating and eggs, feathers and down. Flax for linen grew near the lakes and streams that abounded with delicate-fleshed freshwater fish. There were grapes for wine and grain to make spirits and ale. Herbs and spices were grown in neat allotments, and every farm had at least one apiary to house the bees that did the work of pollination and provided honey. A smoky, pungent tea could be brewed from the leaves of a hardy mountain-growing bush, and the berries of another plant, when roasted and ground, and combined with resin from the evergreen trees, made the execrable beverage that Eclipsians drink in place of coffee.

  The areas of pasture and farm were interspersed every few miles by villages, each with its own blacksmith and butcher, miller and weaver, to turn iron into horseshoes and plowshares, animals into meat and hides, grain into flour, thread into cloth. At the edge of the forests, copses of trees were harvested and replanted in a slow, sustainable cycle, aging most of the wood for fuel, the rest used to make furniture and utensils. Otherwise the forest was protected and pristine, off-limits to human settlement except for the isolated families permitted to trap game animals for food and fur and to collect wild nuts and berries.