“I am.”
“Better to have men who like you.”
“Most will not like me anyway, however I act. I am not of gentle birth, and many find that offensive.”
“And many do not. There are ties that can bind warriors much more surely than any title or rank. But you have to be willing to make some of the rope.”
Neil pursed his lips. “I was well liked in Liery, as you say. I fought alongside lords and called them brother. But this is not Liery.”
“You earned your place there,” Vargus told him. “Now earn it here.”
“That’s difficult, with no battles to fight.”
“There are many kinds of battle, Sir Neil, especially at court.”
“I know little of that sort of warcraft,” Neil admitted.
“You’re young. You can learn.”
Neil nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Sir Vargus,” he said sincerely. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Glenchest, as it turned out, was not so much a castle as a walled amusement. Its towers were tapering, beautiful, and utterly impractical for defense. Its wall, while high enough to keep goats and peasants out, would do little more than make an army pause. The gate was a joke, an elaborate grill of wrought iron made to resemble singing birds and blooming vines, through which could be seen a vast park of trees, hedges, fountains, and pools. Besides the towers Neil could see the roof of the villa, bright copper, shaped very much like an upside-down boat.
The castle stood upon a low mount, and the town below was clean, trim, and very small, clearly grown up recently to service Glenchest. Its inhabitants watched the queen’s party curiously as they approached.
When they drew nearer, four young girls broke from the rest, dancing excitedly up to the party. Neil’s hand strayed to his sword.
“Sir Neil, stay your hand,” Fastia whispered. “Village girls pose no danger.”
For their part, the girls seemed oblivious to Neil’s guarded attitude. They came right to Hurricane’s withers, eyes bright and upturned. They giggled, much in the same manner as the maids had earlier.
“Sir Knight,” the eldest-looking said, a brown-haired lass who might have been thirteen. “Couldn’t you give us a favor?”
Neil stared at them, confused. “Favor?” he replied.
“For my wishing chest,” the girl said demurely, casting her eyes down.
“Go ahead, Sir Neil,” Vargus urged jovially. “Give the girl a little something.”
Neil balked, feeling his face flush, but remembered the older knight’s advice.
“I don’t—” He broke off, befuddled. Elseny laughed.
“Here,” Sir Vargus said. “I’m a knight, as well, ladies, though not so young and pretty as this one. Would a favor from me do?”
“Oh, for me!” one of the younger girls cried, changing her attentions in an instant to Vargus. The older knight smiled and produced a knife, cutting a lock of his curly hair.
“That’s for you, miss,” he said.
“Thank you, sir!” the girl said, and then ran off, holding up her prize.
“It’s the custom, hereabouts,” Fastia said. “They’ll wish on it and pray to Saint Erren for a love as noble as you.”
“Oh,” Neil said. He looked down at the three still eagerly waiting. “I suppose it’s no harm.” He produced his little belt knife, sawed through a bit of his own hair, and handed it down to the girl. She beamed up at him, bowed, and ran off. The others followed, demanding a part of her prize. Elseny applauded. Audra and Mere looked sullen.
“As I said,” Sir James drawled, “this one has a way with the ladies.”
Neil caught movement from the corner of his eye, and to his chagrin realized he’d been distracted enough to miss the arrival of a sizable party.
It was a gaudy group emerging from the gate. There were pages dressed in yellow hose and orange frocks, footmen in silver mail—it looked like real silver, which was ridiculous— knights in baroque, flowery armor and red and blue surcoats trimmed in gold lace. In the center of all this, on a palanquin covered with a silk awning and sprouting pennants of cloth of gold and argent, reclined a woman in a voluminous gown of gold and forest green brocade, touched here and there with scarlet flowers. It spilled down the sides of the palanquin like a waterfall, in all directions, and was surely impossible to walk in. The bodice was cut precariously low and pushed dangerously high, and it seemed to Neil that any motion at all might send her breasts forth to reveal what little of them was hidden.
The face above all of this was, at first glance, almost plain. It was gently oval, with a tiny sharp nose and small lips. But the woman’s eyes were cerulean and radiated an easy mischief, and her lips were painted red and bowed in a smile to match. All this somehow made her whimsically beautiful. Her hair was pale brown, caught up in a complex silver coronet.
“My aunt Elyoner, my father’s sister and the duchess of Loiyes,” Fastia whispered. She leaned away, and then back. “She is a widow and an enemy of virtue, my aunt. Watch yourself with her, especially if you are alone.”
Neil nodded, thinking the duchess did not resemble her brother the king in the least.
“Muriele, my love!” the duchess said, when they were near. “What a disaster that you should come now! I’m barely fit to receive visitors. I just came out to the country a few days ago and haven’t had time to properly put things in order. I hope you will forgive this drab reception! It was the best I could manage on such short notice, but I could not fail to welcome you!”
As she spoke, the pages scattered the road before them with lilies, while others offered goblets of wine and took the reins of the horses. The queen took one of the proffered cups.
“A gracious reception, as always,” she said. “It pleases to see you, Elyoner.”
The duchess coyly averted her eyes. “You are always so kind, Muriele. Please, all of you, come down off those sweaty things. I have chairs for most of you, and your guard will enjoy the walk.” She gestured at four palanquins, each with two seats. They were somewhat smaller than her own.
“Elseny, what a beauty you’ve become!” she continued, as the party dismounted. “And Fastia! You have color back in your cheeks. Have you finally taken my advice and found a lover?”
Fastia made a sound like a hiccup, and suddenly, for some reason, the duchess focused her eyes on Neil. “Aha!” she said. “An excellent choice.”
“I’ve done no such thing, Aunt Elyoner,” Fastia said, “as you ought to know.”
“Really? How sad. I take it, then, that this delicious young knight is free for sport?”
“He is Sir Neil MeqVren, captain of my Lier Guard,” Muriele said.
“How odd. I could have sworn he was guarding Fastia. But that hardly answers my question.”
With a guilty start, Neil realized that he was, indeed, nearer to Fastia than to her mother.
“Aunt Elyoner, you have no shame, truly,” Fastia said.
“Why, I never claimed to, dear. Now, come give us a kiss, and let’s get out of this dreadful sunlight!”
“Please accept my apologies, once again,” the duchess said that night at supper, gesturing at the table, an enormous affair the size of some galleries. “The cupboard was rather bare, and my best cook is too ill to be troubled.”
Neil was starting to notice a pattern with the duchess. The polished oaken surface was filled from end to end with partridges in butter gravy, quail pie with currants and almonds, ten kinds of cheese, mixed herbs, steaming platters of eel stew, capons in crust of salt, three roasted suckling pigs, and a gilded bull’s head. Wine had been flowing like water since they passed through the gates and fantastic gardens of Glen-chest, and Elyoner herself had taken quite a bit of it, though to no obvious effect. Servants hurried everywhere, keeping glasses full, and Neil had to be careful to keep up with what he drank.