“Grandfather?” he asked. Keren had her nose in her mug, so it was Myste who answered.
“Talamir is Keren’s grandfather; her people marry off early, and it’s usually arranged between families,” Myste replied. “Since he was the only boy in his, he had to take a break during his Trainee period to go home and fulfill his—ah—obligation.”
“Four breaks, to be precise,” Keren added, with a smirk. “Fortunately for me, I’m half of a twin set, and traditionally only one of us had to do the duty. So when I was Chosen, that left my brother Teren as the one.”
“But is Teren also not a Herald?” Alberich asked, puzzled.
“He got Chosen after he’d provided the family with a litter,” Keren replied and shrugged. “What can I say? With so many close relational ties, my people have to be more pragmatic about marriage. You marry who’s available, and if it turns out there’s a love match, all well and good, but if not, nobody cares who you sleep with for love or pleasure as long as no one is harmed by it.”
“About your grandfather—Talamir,” Alberich prompted, wanting to change the subject back to its original topic.
Keren lay back on the old, worn rug she’d appropriated, and stared up at the branches waving overhead. “I don’t understand why he isn’t doing something about this,” she said finally. “I mean, it’s wrong, we all know in our bones that it’s wrong, though—”
“We can’t put a finger on why,” Elcarth interrupted. “That’s the reason, I think. We don’t have a reason, and somewhere down inside, we’re all uncertain that the only thing we can object to is that the Prince is an outsider.”
“But none of us objected to Sendar’s choice of wife,” Jadus said slowly. “None of us had this feeling of wrongness about her, and she was not a Herald.”
“But she was Valdemaran,” said Crathach, and turned to Alberich. “And have you anything to contribute?”
Alberich shrugged. “No Foresight, if that is what you mean,” he admitted. “Only the same feeling, that this marriage will prove to be a grave mistake.” He did not mention the things he had learned about the Prince’s contacts with the actor, in no small part because it was not yet proven. But he exchanged a look with Myste, who gave a small shrug.
“Which could all too easily be nothing more than prejudice,” Ylsa pointed out shrewdly. “He certainly has gone out of his way to be agreeable to everyone.”
“Too agreeable?” Keren asked, then snorted. “As if it matters.”
“Well,” Myste said slowly, “it does. If we aren’t just making a mountain out of nothing, if this is going to turn into a bad situation, then the best thing that we can do for the Queen is to support her in every way. Including keeping an eye on him, so that if he does something against her, or against Valdemar, we can do something about him.”
“That’s more or less what Grandfather said,” Keren admitted. “But of all things I hate, I hate having to play a waiting game the most.”
“Don’t we all,” Jadus replied, and that seemed all that anyone could say.
They passed the remainder of the evening assiduously avoiding the entire subject—but it was with them, as an unseen presence, a kind of specter at the feast, the whole time. Alberich left them early, feeling that not all the wine in the world could wash away his unease, and feeling wearier than he ever had in his life. He sought forgetfulness in sleep, and for the first time in his life, actually found it. Whatever was wrong, it was not immediate enough even to give him uneasy dreams.
***
The Collegium was back in session; things were getting back to normal again. The last of the classes was over for the day, and Alberich was working with Kimel of the Guard, while two more of Kimel’s fellows waited their turn to bout with him. They were outside, on the practice grounds, rather than inside the salle—whenever possible, since the mirror incident, Alberich preferred to run practices that were, by their nature, unpredictable on the grounds outside.
Alberich caught movement on the path long before the Prince and his entourage arrived; he sensed it, identified it as “outsiders” by the lack of Whites or Guard uniforms, and dismissed it as currently unimportant, all in a heartbeat. The group of seven or eight paused a prudent distance outside the edge of the practice ground and watched.
There was some murmuring, but nothing more than that; certainly there was no hint of scorn or scoffing in the tones of the muttered conversation. Perfectly acceptable, that was. Alberich finished the bout in a draw with Kimel. He probably could have beaten him; he usually did, but caution made him decide not to do so in front of outsiders. The two of them drew back and saluted, and only then did Alberich turn his attention to the audience.
It could not have been clearer that the one in the middle was Prince Karathanelan. The man was, Alberich supposed, handsome enough. He could certainly see that Selenay would have no reason to find the arrangement of his features less than pleasing. The cut and style of his clothing was a bit different from roughly half of the young men around him; the effect was of “foreignness,” but was reasonably flattering. The others were apparently friends of his from Rethwellan; Alberich had heard something of them, that a number of the Prince’s landless friends from Rethwellan had arrived in time for the wedding, and that Selenay had already granted them holdings of their own from unclaimed properties on the Border with Karse and Rethwellan. Alberich wished them joy of their new lands. They weren’t the most prosperous even at the best of times, being mostly sheep country.
What Alberich didn’t like was the posture of those around him. These were sycophants; nothing more. They devoted themselves to pleasing someone stronger; if any of them had ever had an original thought in his head, he had quickly suppressed it. A man who surrounded himself with men like these, in Alberich’s experience, was a man who had a great deal of difficulty in understanding that the world did not happen to run itself to his desire.
There were a great many Sunpriests like that. . . .
Still, the look on the face of the Prince suggested that he had some respect for Alberich’s ability.
Alberich gave him a sketchy sort of salute, while the Guards gave him the full bow due to his position as Consort. He waited, resting, to see what the Prince would do or say.
Although a brief shadow passed over the Prince’s face, aside from that flicker of displeasure, the Prince’s expression did not change, and his voice, when he spoke, was polite and pleasant enough.
“You are the Weaponsmaster?” he asked. “The Karsite?”
“Weaponsmaster Herald Alberich,” Alberich confirmed. “Karsite-born, yes, Your Highness.”
The Prince looked him over carefully. “And Karsite-trained, I am told. Interesting.” As he was surveying Alberich, the Herald was doing the same for him.
:There’s muscle there,: he observed to Kantor.
:No matter what he’s been doing since he got here, he’s not soft,: Kantor agreed.
“I should like to bout with you,” the Prince said abruptly.
Alberich did not bother to point out that the Prince was hardly dressed for a round of vigorous exercise; he was clearly one of those who did not trouble himself over the ruin of a suit of clothing. He merely glanced at the two Guardsmen, who quickly effaced themselves with a little nod, making it clear that they were perfectly willing to yield their time to the Prince. One of them picked up a set of practice swords and offered them to the Prince, as some of his entourage helped him to take off his elaborate doublet and relieved him of some of his jewels.