A smile twitched the corners of Sandry’s mouth. She thought, Somebody’s been practicing.
They crossed the river, passed through the fringe of houses on the far side, then began the climb up the hill to the castle. Halfway up, they heard the rattle of a great chain. The portcullis that covered the open gate was being raised. The drawbridge was already down, bridging a moat too wide for a horse to jump. On top of the wall, men-at-arms in mail and helmets stood at every notch, watching her. One of them, standing directly over the gate, raised a trumpet to his lips and blew it. As Sandry and Ambros rode first over the drawbridge, golden notes rang out in the sodden air.
Inside they found the outer bailey, where many of the industries that supported the castle household were placed. Everywhere men and women dropped what they did to line up along the curved road that led to the gate to the inner bailey. As their group passed, they bowed or curtsied.
Uncle Vedris would never allow them to waste time at work on this nonsense, Sandry thought, outraged, though she hid her true feelings to nod and smile at those who lined the road. He’d jump on you quick enough if he thought you were disrespectful, but he didn’t need all this, this stupid ceremony to prove it. I’m so glad he can’t see me now.
As they clattered through the inner gate, Sandry’s jaws began to hurt. She was actually grinding her teeth in frustration. With an effort she made herself relax, working her jaw to loosen the tight muscles. She glanced back at the others and saw something that made her grin. Little Chime sat on Tris’s saddle horn, wings unfurled, chin held high. The glass dragon obviously thought all of this celebration was for her.
And so it is, Sandry thought with a grin. It’s not for me—it’s for her.
With that idea in mind, she was able to smile more naturally at the men-at-arms who waited by the inner gate, and to nod at the groups of people who stood inside, in the court in front of the main castle. Her smile widened as four little girls, their ages ranging from five to twelve, broke free of the servants to race toward Ambros, shrieking, “Papa! Papa!”
He laughed and dismounted, kneeling in the mud so he could hug all four at once. “You’d think I’d been gone for years instead of a few days,” he chided, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “What is your cousin supposed to think of such hoydens?”
Sandry dismounted before someone could help her to do it. “She thinks they are delightful,” she said, walking over to stand beside Ambros. “She thinks their father is blessed to have such lovely girls.”
“Their father is,” said Ambros, getting to his feet. “Girls, this is your cousin, Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren.”
Reminded of their manners, the girls all curtsied to Sandry. The one who looked to be about ten thrust a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers at Sandry. “I picked them myself,” she said.
“And I thank you,” Sandry replied, accepting them. “I love to get flowers after a long ride.”
“Good, because doubtless they were picked in your own garden,” Ambros said, an arm around the oldest girl’s shoulders. “And chances are, they were picked when someone should have been at her lessons.”
“But Papa, I was finished,” protested the flower-bearer. “I was!”
Ambros had just finished introducing his daughters when a tall woman, her hair more silvery than blond at an early age, came forward, still wiping her hands on a small cloth. “And this is the most beautiful flower in the castle gardens,” said Ambros, his face alight. “Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren, may I present my lady wife, Saghada Ealaga fa Landreg.”
Sandry and Ealaga curtsied to each other gravely. Then the lady smiled at Sandry. “You and your companions must be dying for a hot bath,” Ealaga suggested. “A dreadful day to ride—you couldn’t have waited for better weather?” she asked her husband as hostlers rushed forward to help the riders dismount and to take the horses’ reins.
“I wished our cousin to have time to thoroughly review the state of things here before she must return for Midsummer,” Ambros explained. “The will of our empress is that Clehame Sandry bear her company for most of the season. As you can see, my dear, she sent four of her young courtiers to bear the clehame and her friends company until it was time to return.”
“Wonderful,” said Ealaga with a smile. “Rizu, you’re always welcome, and Ambros, you ought to remember Caidy is my mother’s own great-niece. And Jak and Fin I know quite well.” To Sandry, she explained, “He’s always positive we are spinning wildly out of control, when he is prepared for everything. Really, what can you do with such a man?”
Sandry laughed. “It seems as if you married him.” There was something about Ealaga that reminded her very much of Lark, one of the four’s foster-mothers. To Sandry, it was enough to make her relax.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” a thin, short woman informed Tris as the redhead was putting her book in a saddlebag. “Servants around to the side entrance, my lord should have told you. We need you to tell us which luggage belongs to the clehame.”
Tris looked down her long nose at the speaker. “I’ve been demoted, seemingly,” she answered, her voice extra dry. “From traveling companion to maid. Do I look like a maid to you?”
The woman brushed her own russet brown dress and embroidered apron with one hand. Tris looked down and realized that a sensible navy riding tunic and breeches so wide they might be skirts could resemble a servant’s clothes.
“Ah. Well, I’m not,” she said. “Sandry doesn’t have a maid.”
The woman’s eyebrows went up; her jaw dropped. “No maid?” she asked, appalled. “But how does she dress?”
Tris bit her lip to stop herself from saying, “One piece of clothing at a time.” Instead, she rethought her answer, then said, “The clehame is accustomed to looking after herself.”
“But that’s indecent!” whispered the woman. “Who presses her gowns? Who stitches up any rents in her clothes?”
“She does it,” Tris replied, unbuckling her saddlebags with a glare for the hostler who had come to do the chore. Slinging the bags over her shoulder, Tris told the woman, “No one mentioned your clehame is a stitch witch? Trust me, if you handled her clothes, you’d only mess them up. They never wrinkle or tear.” Helpfully, enjoying the sheer bafflement on the proper servant’s face, Tris added, “She weaves her own cloth, you see.”
A blunt-fingered hand rested lightly on Tris’s sleeve. “ Viymese Tris, I just wanted to thank you for keeping us dry in all the wet today,” Rizu said. Her large, dark eyes danced with amusement. “I’ve never known anyone, Viymese or Viynain, who could hold protection like that and still read.”
“Viymese!” exclaimed the servant woman. Her voice squeaked a little on the last syllable. “Forgive me, Viymese, I didn’t mean to, to intrude .... I must assign a maid to the clehame, and to yourself, of course, and—”
“Viymese Daja and I don’t require maids,” Tris said, pointing to Daja, who was grinning at Rizu. “And I think you’ll find Clehame Sandry will only be grumpy if you give her one.” The woman must be a housekeeper. “Surely you have someone who would be happy to attend Saghada Rizuka fa Dalach and Saghada Caidlene fa Sarajane.”