“Your Grace,” he followed Tigney’s lead in addressing her. She extended her hand in brief formal courtesy, and they each bent to kiss her archdivine’s ring. She was not wearing the Temple robes of that office today; Pen wondered how she kept track of which personage she spoke for at any given moment. Rather like possessing a demon, that.
The princess-archdivines of Martensbridge were by three centuries of tradition daughters of the Hallow King of the Weald, called or perhaps assigned to this pocket palatine duty on behalf of their royal parent, though this one was, by the grind of time, now aunt to the present king. Lacking a spare or willing daughter, the office was sometimes filled by a cousin or niece; sometimes elected from the Daughter’s Order. Like all things human, the princesses had varied over time in their abilities, but everything about the orderliness of this place spoke well of its current ruler.
There was a sad shortage of crowns and robes about the princess-and-archdivine today, to Pen’s disappointment, though she did wear some handsome jewelry. Power without panoply, but he was grateful for the informality when she gestured and her secretary brought two chairs for her guests.
As they settled themselves, Pen a bit gingerly, she said, “So, this is your problem child, Tigney.” He nodded ruefully. Her shrewd gray-eyed gaze went to Pen. “Learned Ruchia’s demon is now within you?”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Had she known Ruchia?
Evidently so, for she sighed and said, “I had once hoped that she would become my court sorceress, but there were other calls upon her skills. And I’m afraid she found my modest court too dull.” Pen wondered if she saw him as a poor exchange, though as her gaze dwelt on him her expression softened.
Deciding he was addressing the princess, just at the moment, he essayed cautiously, “I am sorry about burning down your castle, Your Grace.”
Her lips curved up, slyly. “Ah, but Martenden is not my castle. Kin Martenden formerly owed fealty to kin Shrike, who died out heirless a generation ago, leaving Martenden orphaned, or perhaps rogue. A freedom of which the current lord’s father, and Rusillin himself, have taken undue advantage. Four times has that castle blocked or seized traffic on the road and the lake during disputes with the city. The city council has been trying to buy out the lordship for fifteen years, but every time they thought him cornered, he’s turned about, most lately with his mercenary schemes. Stealing young men away from this country, more cruel than any tax he has paid, or more often not paid, to us. Castle Martenden has been a bloody thorn in the side of the royal free city for years.”
“Oh,” said Pen, beginning to be enlightened.
“Lord Rusillin is weakened and off balance as never before, and best of all, he did it to himself. This is not an opportunity I or the town mean to let slip away. Nonetheless, the campaign, being tricky, will take a little time and much cooperation.” She grimaced at that last word. “That being so, we think it well for you to be put out of his reach. Rusillin is not a forgiving sort of fellow.”
“Er?” said Pen. Tigney sighed.
The princess nodded to Pen. “I understand you took an irregular holy oath yesterday. If you will make it a regular one today, the Temple of Martensbridge will undertake to send you to the white god’s seminary at Rosehall. There you will receive the divine’s training that most Temple sorcerers complete before they are offered the responsibility of a demon. Better late than never, I suppose.”
Pen gasped. “Rosehall? The Weald city with the university? That’s three hundred years old? The famous one?”
Tigney cleared his throat. “The seminary, while associated with the university corporation, has its own specialized faculty, one of the very few authorized to oversee the training of Temple sorcerers. Nonetheless, you would be expected to take some lectures from the other body. Since you are starting all askew. I cannot imagine it will be easy. For anyone involved.”
The princess—or perhaps it was the archdivine—smiled. “If the Bastard’s Order at Rosehall can’t handle a little disorder, they have taken oath to the wrong god. But it will give time for this young man’s superiors to take thought, and judge him fairly.” She considered. “Some prayers for guidance might not be a bad idea, either.”
Pen wasn’t sure if the tightness in his chest was his own excitement, or Desdemona. He gulped. “Your Grace. Learned. May I—I need to talk with—there are two affected here. May I have leave to go apart, and speak with Desdemona?” He wasn’t sure they could manage silent speech just now, and he had no wish to sound demented in front of this high lady.
The princess raised her well-groomed eyebrows. “Desdemona?”
“It’s what he’s named his demon,” Tigney muttered to her.
“He’s named it?” The eyebrows stayed up. “Unusual. But yes, Lord Penric, if you feel you need to.” She gestured toward the balcony. “Take your time.”
As Pen slipped through the glassed door and closed it behind him, she and Tigney leaned their heads closer together.
Pen gripped the carved wooden balustrade and stared out down over the town, the river, the bridges and mills, the long lake. The pale line of the peaks on the farthest horizon.
“Desdemona!” he nearly squeaked. “Rosehall! The university! Me, to be a learned divine! Can you even imagine it?”
She said dryly, “All too well. Four of my riders before you have been down that road, although three of them before my time. Thankfully.”
“Even better! It would be as if I had my own tutor living inside my head! How easy could it be?”
“Mm, I’m not sure how similar the study in Brajar or Saone is, or was, to Rosehall.”
“I hear the students at Rosehall have great freedom in the city.”
“If you like drunken, rowdy parties, I suppose.”
“And don’t you?”
He thought she smiled, or might have, had she possessed lips. “Perhaps,” she admitted.
“I could be the first Learned in my whole family, as far back as I know. D’you think my mother will be pleased?” All right, his imagination was getting a little ahead of events, here. But he would send a letter home with Gans, telling her, since it appeared the Temple was going to send him off posthaste.
“Mm,” said Desdemona. “While in general mothers are quite happy to brag about their children rising in the Temple, there is a slight problem with those who take oath to the white god. Women fear it might reflect on their own marital fidelity, in the minds of some of their gossips.”
“Oh,” said Pen, taken aback. “That seems very unfair, given it was my father who—never mind.”
“Your mother will be pleased for you in her heart,” Desdemona promised him. Somewhat airily, he felt, given that the demon had still been insensate when he’d last seen Lady Jurald. But with good will.
“Will you—” He stopped. May I go was an absurd question to ask, Will you go with me even more so. He wasn’t back arguing his case with Rolsch or his mother, after all. Habits. “Will you be pleased?”
“Pen,” she said, in a quiet tone he’d never heard from her before. He stilled, listening.
“You looked a god in the eyes and bore witness for me, by which alone I am preserved.” She took a deep breath, through his mouth. “You looked a god in the eyes. And spoke for me. There is nothing in my power that I will ever refuse you, after that.”