“Sorry to pull you away from your work,” said Seregil as they set off on horseback, but only out of politeness. “I suppose you had to cancel the show?”
“Oh, no,” Atre assured him blithely. The man had hired a glossy black gelding for the evening and rode well. “We have a few plays in our repertoire that don’t include me. My understudy, Calieus, and young Teibo have center stage tonight. But of course, I would have come, even if it meant canceling a performance. I’m delighted to repay your generosity in such a small way.”
“And I’m delighted that you are a man of your word,” Seregil replied.
A damp, salt-laden breeze blew up from the harbor as they rode through the well-lit streets of the Noble Quarter to the grandest part bordering Silvermoon Street.
Alaya’s villa was four times the size of the house in Wheel Street. When they arrived, Seregil was surprised to find not only two servants in white livery ready to greet them and take charge of their horses, but half a dozen of the Palace Guard on duty as well.
The captain politely asked their names and gave them a slight bow. “Her Grace is expecting you.”
Servants ushered them inside and led them through a lavishly appointed receiving room into a grand salon, the walls of which were painted, Skalan-style, with colorful murals depicting ocean scenes. The archduchess’s main holdings were on the southeastern coast, though she was seldom there now that she served at court.
A large set of double doors at the far side of the room stood open, and through these they stepped into a garden courtyard ringed with fragrant flowers and trees and lit by crystal lanterns on tall gilt stands. The center was paved with pink marble slabs with compact lines of aromatic creeping thyme between them, bright with tiny purple flowers. Alaya and her guests reclined at ease on silk-draped couches set up beside a moss-crusted fountain. Carved sea serpents rose up out of the broad marble basin to spit tinkling streams of water.
Reltheus was already there, sharing a couch with a middle-aged woman Seregil recognized at once as Princess Aralain, mother of Elani. The princess royal sat with Alaya, slender as a boy in her sea-green silk. Elani had her aunt and mother’s fair hair and pale eyes, but must have taken after her father more than the royal side, for she was rather pretty, though Seregil noted a small scar just to the left of her chin, and another across the back of her right hand; swordsman’s scars. Her hands were not coarse-no doubt she wore gloves-but her nails were trimmed short.
Archduchess Alaya was dressed in purple silk, her white hair a mass of jeweled braids and ringlets. Marquise Evesia and her husband occupied another couch, and Marquis Kyrin completed the party, Seregil was surprised but pleased to see.
A young woman with red-blond hair stood in the circle of couches, the celebrated poetess Jenaria. She was reciting lyric verse at the moment. Seregil, Alec, and the actor remained respectfully in the doorway, waiting for her to finish.
When the poetess finished and sat down amid a flurry of applause, Seregil and his companions stepped forward and bowed deeply to the princesses and their hostess. Atre remained behind them.
Reltheus stood and joined them. “Your Highnesses, Your Grace, allow me to present Lord Seregil of Rhiminee, and his companion, Lord Alec of Ivywell.”
Princess Elani inclined her head, accustomed to deference, but Seregil was almost certain her gaze lingered a moment on Alec, though it was to him that she spoke.
“Lord Seregil the Aurenfaie? I’m pleased to meet you at last, cousin. Aunt Klia holds you both as great friends.”
“It’s been a long time, Seregil,” Princess Aralain said a bit less warmly.
“Your Highnesses greatly honor us,” Seregil said. “And Your Grace,” he added, bowing now to Alaya as Alec did the same.
Alaya smiled as she waved them to the last empty couch. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lord Alec. And look at you, Seregil! You have grown up from that sad little thing you were at court.”
A servant immediately came forward with a gilded wine table, golden cups, and plates of tiny sweetmeats for them. Alaya eyed Atre approvingly. “Tell me about this other handsome young fellow you have brought with you.”
“This is the great actor, Master Atre, lately of Nanta,” Seregil explained. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him and his company?”
“I have indeed. How clever of you to bring him. Princess Elani has been so curious to see his players.”
“A pity they are in such a poor venue,” added Princess Aralain, as if Atre weren’t there to hear.
“Ah, but that’s changed, Highness,” Seregil informed her. “Lady Kylith, Alec, and I have set them up properly in Gannet Lane.”
“Very good!” said Alaya. “Master Atre, I am so glad we will be able to sample your talent tonight. I’m sorry you missed Jenaria’s first offerings, but I’m sure she has another prepared for us.”
The poetess rose again and bowed to the guests. “It would be my honor, Your Grace,” she replied. “I offer to you
‘The Hour of Blue Leaves.’
“I’ve met my love in the shadowed bower,
and we embraced as the sun’s last rays
bled over the horizon. Leave-taking
burned behind the eyes, promises kindled
skin to skin. As the evening wind
turned the leaves, pale blue against the night,
I let my love drift out of the garden
with only a fading musk on my palms
where once we touched. How was I to know
my love would become only a reflection,
a shadow beneath the current,
a blue leaf adrift on the stream of memory?”
“How lovely!” Princess Aralain exclaimed. “Do give us one more.”
“As you like, Highness.” The poetess pressed a hand to her heart. “ ‘Leave-Taking at Dawn.’ ”
This one was much longer, a lover’s lament. Seregil lounged against his end of their couch, sipping his wine and nodding appreciatively at particularly well-turned lines. Alec sat beside him, cup raised halfway to his lips, his expression one of rapt attention. It was only partly an act on both their parts; the woman was talented. Even so, Seregil was acutely aware of the curious glances Princess Elani was stealing in their direction.
He wasn’t the only one to notice. Reltheus looked their way more than once, and Aralain was watching with a hint of disapproval at the corners of her mouth. Alec was oblivious as usual to the attention he was attracting.
When the poetess had finished, she bowed once more and withdrew, leaving the archduchess and her guests to discuss her verse. Having missed most of it, Seregil and Alec had little to say, but he noticed that Elani was equally quiet and not fully at ease. The conversation flowed around her, hardly seeming to register. Marquis Kyrin, on the other hand, was particularly knowledgeable. Apparently this sort of entertainment agreed with him, for he recited a few short poems himself, in a deep, melodious voice. Even then, he had a reserved air about him that was in sharp contrast with
Reltheus’s open manner. Perhaps it was their political interests that had brought them together.
When the subject of poetry was exhausted, Alaya looked to Seregil. “And now for Master Atre, I think.”
Atre stood and delivered the soliloquy from an upcoming play in which he had the lead role of a wizard intent on capturing the affections of an unwilling young woman. It was dark and fiery, and Seregil found himself engrossed in spite of himself. Atre followed this with a comic monologue as the saucy but sharp-witted servant of a hapless noble who had a habit of getting into trouble of various sorts.