Like Tris, Sandry focused on the crest in the ground and the party of riders who surged over it. She was quick to note that their hunting clothes and horses’ tack alike were edged in gold and silver embroidery, the work of countless hands. They were accompanied by guardsmen, business-like warriors in leather jerkins sewn with metal plates, worn over full-sleeved red shirts and baggy pants. The guards wore round armor caps and held crossbows on their laps.
“Is this your witch-thing, peasants?” demanded a big, handsome young man as the hunting party came within shouting distance. “It ruined our sport! Drove off every grouse and wood pigeon for miles!”
Daja asked her friends, “Did he say ‘peasants’?”
Briar looked over his shoulder at her. “He definitely said ‘peasants.’”
“Someone needs spectacles.” Tris pushed her own spectacles higher on her nose.
Sandry crossed mental fingers. For the first time since they had reunited, they sounded as they once had at Discipline cottage.
A woman rode forward, past the man who had shouted at them. Four of the guards and another richly dressed man who glinted a magical silver trotted their horses to catch up with her. Briar whistled in soft admiration for the woman. Sandry couldn’t blame him. The lady was a splendid creature who wore her russet hair curled, coiled, and pinned under a bronze velvet cap in an artless tumble. It framed an ivory-skinned face, large brown eyes, an intriguing mouth over a square and stubborn chin, and a small, slight slip of a nose. Her clothing hugged a very shapely figure.
Eyeing the lady’s bronze velvet high-necked coat and wide breeches, Sandry felt a pinch in the place where she kept her pride in the clothes she made and wore. Lark warned me I’d get a dreadful case of style envy at the Namornese court, she told herself with the tiniest of sighs. There’s just something to this lady’s garments that gives them the, the sauciest look. And what I wouldn’t give for a nice, close look at those lapel and seam embroideries! I can see a few magical signs to ward off injury and enemies, but I think there are others, ones I don’t recognize.
Remembering her manners, Sandry met the lady’s amused eyes once more. This time she realized there was something familiar about that beautiful face. Among her family heirlooms Sandry had portraits, including those of her mother’s parents. This woman looked very much like Sandry’s grandmother. Belatedly the young woman realized who she must be. Blushing deeply, Sandry dismounted to curtsy deeply to her cousin Berenene dor Ocmore, empress of Namorn. Briar was next to dismount, followed by Tris and Daja. As Tris curtsied, Briar and Daja bowed, as befitted a young man in breeches and a Trader in leggings.
Berenene rode forward until her mount stood a yard from Sandry. “Look at me, child,” she said in a voice like warm music.
Sandry obeyed. From the way the empress’s horse shifted, the woman was startled, though that beautiful face showed not one drop of surprise. “Qunoc bless us,” Berenene whispered, naming the west Namornese goddess of crops.
“Lady Sandrilene fa Toren? You are the image of your mother.”
Sandry would have argued—her mother had not possessed a button of a nose—but arguing and empresses did not mix. “I’m honored, Your Imperial Majesty.”
The empress looked their company over. A slight crease appeared between her perfectly arched brows; the tucked corners of her mouth deepened. “But where is your entourage? Your guardsmen, your ladies-in-waiting? Do not tell me you came all the way from Emelan with just these few persons.” She looked at Tris and Daja. “Unless these young women are your ladies?” Her tone made it clear she believed they were nothing of the sort.
“These are my foster-sisters, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sandry replied, still deep in her curtsy. Tris’s was beginning to wobble. “And Briar is my foster-brother. We traveled with Third Caravan Saralan—”
The empress cut her off. “Traders? Where are they now?”
“We sent them ahead,” Sandry replied. “We needed to rest, and they had a ship to catch.”
The empress leaned forward, resting her arm on her saddle horn. “All of you, please rise, before the redheaded foster-sister falls over,” she commanded. Tris blushed a deep plum color as she rose. Daja and Briar straightened.
“You brought your foster family,” the empress said, her brown eyes dancing. “What are their names, if you please?”
“Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty,” replied Sandry, her voice even. I’d bet every stitch I have on she already knows quite well who everyone is, she thought. “Ravvikki”—Namornese for a young woman—“Trisana Chandler.” Tris curtsied again. “Ravvikki Daja Kisubo.” Daja bowed. Using the word for a young man, Sandry continued, “Ravvotki Briar Moss.” Before they had entered Namorn, they had agreed that they were not going to claim the title of mage unless a crisis arose. By then they had all been thoroughly sick of explaining how they could be accredited mages at eighteen.
“Welcome to my empire,” said Berenene with a gracious nod. To Sandry she added, “My dear, two sisters and a brother, however devoted, are not sufficient protection for a maiden of your wealth and position. Men of few principles might see your unguarded state as the chance to capture a wealthy young bride.”
Sandry noticed Briar’s tiny smirk and the sudden, bored droop of Tris’s eyes. Only Daja’s face had the perfect, polite expression that told onlookers nothing of her true thoughts. Daja and I should have spent the trip teaching them a diplomat’s facial expressions as well as Namornese, Sandry thought, vexed. It would be impossible not to guess that Briar and Tris thought they were a match for would-be kidnappers, something that would never cross the mind of an ordinary young man or woman.
Stop fussing, Sandry ordered herself. I know very well my cousin has had spies on me for years, and she is aware we’re all mages.
Now that the empress’s riders had stopped chasing her, Chime decided it was safe to move. She wriggled out from under Tris’s loose riding tunic and up to the redhead’s shoulder.
Instantly Berenene’s companion, the one who was not in uniform, moved in front of the empress, one hand up. The silver fire of magic flared from his palm to wrap around Berenene like a shimmering cocoon.
“He’s good,” Briar muttered to Daja out of the corner of his mouth. “I thought you said her boss mage was some old woman named Ladyhammer.”
“Do you see any old women riding with this crowd if they don’t have to?” Daja inquired.
Chime ignored the magic. She rose to her hindquarters on Tris’s shoulder, one paw clutching Tris’s hair for balance, surveying the Namornese curiously.
Chime, you show-off, thought Sandry with affection. “That’s Chime, Your Imperial Majesty,” she told Berenene. “She’s a curiosity that Tris found in the far south.”
“Curious indeed,” said the mage who still guarded the empress. His dark eyes had been amused when they first rode up, but they were steady and serious now. “It’s not an illusion, or an animated poppet. It looks like glass, or perhaps moving ice.”
“Tris,” Sandry said, a hint for the redhead to explain.
Tris sighed. “She’s mage made. A new mage, one who started out as a glassblower, had an accident. It turned out to be Chime.”
“I don’t believe the imperial glassmaker, Viynain”—the Namornese word for a male mage—“Warder, has ever made anything of the kind,” the empress remarked. “If he could, he would have done so for me. My dear Quenaill, if the creature had meant harm to us, surely it would have attacked by now. I can hardly see my cousin Sandrilene, who has been gone for so long. My dear, allow me to present the great mage Quenaill Shieldsman. Doubtless you have heard of him at Winding Circle.”