Rizu looked up, reaching a hand for Daja. “It doesn’t have to be settled like this. Persuade Sandry to finish the summer, at least. Then we’ll all understand one another better.”
I understand well enough, thought Daja. I understand as much as I need to. So I should talk Sandry into staying—if I even could, which I doubt—so that other men may have a chance at binding her to a marriage contract? Biting her lip so she would not cry in front of the kaqs who walked the halls, she went back to her bedroom to pack.
The news that Sandry meant to leave for Emelan within the week made Landreg House buzz like an overturned beehive. The servants soon learned that when the normally kind Sandry was this angry, it was best simply to get out of her way. Ambros and Ealaga were made of sterner stuff. Their discussion with her ended in a shouting match that drove Briar out into the rose garden. He had little to pack now that his things from the palace were bundled up. He placed his personal shakkan on a stone bench so it could soak up sunlight while not moving and proceeded to give the garden a last inspection.
Ambros found him while he strengthened the roses against parasites. “I had thought she would finally see it is her duty to stay and represent her people,” Ambros told Briar without preamble. “To represent them in the Noble Assembly. You must reason with her.”
“She’s in no mood for reason, or didn’t you notice?” Briar asked, viewing one rose’s leaves and stems from every angle. “Besides, she’s got duties at home, too. Didn’t she tell you? She’s one of His Grace’s two top people. She keeps his castle for him and advises him as he governs the country. If he goes out of Summersea, she stays there in his place. There’s rumors he’s going to make her his heir. She doesn’t believe that one, but I do. His Grace’s heir is bleat-brained.”
Ambros sat hard next to the shakkan. “She never mentioned it.”
Briar gently fed the rose a little extra power. “Probably because she doesn’t think he’ll disinherit Franzen to put her in his place. The rest of it she calls ‘just helping Uncle out.’ His own seneschal gets her signature for plenty of things, rather than pester his grace. But just because she talks it down doesn’t mean she doesn’t think it’s important. She loves Emelan. Maybe she could’ve loved it here, but there’s no chance of that now. Once Sandry hates something, she puts all she’s got into it.”
Covering his face with his hands, Ambros groaned. “The Landreg women all have this mulish streak,” he said, his voice muffled.
“Do you think?” Briar asked a little too innocently. Moving to one of the trees, he called, “This is the last year you’ll be getting apples from this old woman. She’s tired.” He stroked the tree’s trunk. “But let her stand, will you? She’s got plenty of good years as a tree left.”
“I wouldn’t dream of cutting her down,” Ambros said, dropping his hands. “I’ve had plenty of good apples from her, and hid out from my relatives in her branches. I only wish you’d had time to go over all our fields at Landreg Castle.”
Briar looked at him. “There’s no saying I might not come back,” he informed the man. “But on my terms. Without all this glitter and flash. I’m just a plain lad at heart.”
Ambros’s grin made him look like a boy for a moment. “Well, plain lad, you’re always welcome in my home, wherever I make it.”
As soon as they reached Landreg House, Tris abandoned her packed trunks and bags to the care of servants. Saying the briefest hellos to Sandry’s cousins and to Zhegorz, she went to her room to lie down. She had expected that playing with storms would give her a sound night’s sleep. That was always a treat for a light sleeper like her. Working with the Syth to block up that hidden entry to the palace would have been a guarantee not just of sound sleep, but of late sleep. Doing both, then waking at dawn to pack, left her feeling as if someone had put gravel in her joints and plaster in her skull. She needed to rest for a while, to ease her aching limbs. That took longer than she had expected. It was late afternoon when she opened her eyes.
“Oh, cat dirt,” she muttered. She clambered down from the high bed, stripping off her overgown and undergown.
She traded them for a plain blue gown in the Capchen style, then washed her face and hands. At least her braids did not look tatty. The forces she kept in them made each hair cling to the others. It was a side effect that not only looked tidy, but it spared her the need to rebraid her hair every day. Tris hated repeat work.
After smoothing her stockings and putting her shoes back on, Tris went to see if Zhegorz needed help in his packing. There’s no telling how far he’s gotten, given how easily distracted he is, she thought as she knocked on his door.
There was no answer. Tris knocked again, then consulted with the draft that slid into the hall from his room. “You’d best not be naked,” she called through the keyhole, and opened the door.
Zhegorz was fully clothed. He had jammed himself into the corner between his bed and the wall, where he had curled into a knot, his arms locked around his drawn-up knees. Chime clicked anxiously at him from the bed, her clear wings half-outstretched to keep her balanced. Tris looked around with a scowl. Zhegorz’s scant belongings were still in the cupboard where he kept them.
“Were you planning to leave everything you own behind?” she asked, her voice tart. “Were you going to count on the wind to keep you warm in the mountains? They get very cold this time of year. You’re going to need the woolens we got you.”
“I’m not going.” The man’s voice came from inside the tangle of arms and legs. “Viymese Daja told me to go away. If she’s leaving and she wants me to go away then I can’t come. And she’s the one who speaks for me, because the fire is hers. If she goes away and tells me to go away, then I have to stay here.”
Tris propped her hands on her hips. “In case you haven’t noticed, and it seems you haven’t, I’m the one who’s been looking after you lately—well, Briar and I. We’re the ones who said you were going to Winding Circle.” With dreadful patience she continued: “To go there, you have to leave here. If I have to show you the kind of fire I handle, Asaia witness it, you’ll be too scared to think. And since you’re not doing so well at thinking right now, maybe that’s for the best. You forget about Daja’s fire and worry about mine.”
Zhegorz looked up at her, his eyes haggard. “You’re confusing me. I only know Viymese Daja says I can’t be around her. She’s going, so I can’t.”
Tris turned on her heel, ready to do battle. “Gods save me from madmen and their notions,” she muttered. “As if my temper hasn’t been tried enough lately.” She stalked down the gallery to Daja’s room and knocked, then turned the doorknob. The door was locked. “Daja!” she cried, letting a wind carry the call through the keyhole so she wouldn’t startle the household.
“Go away!” a harsh voice shouted in reply. “I don’t want to talk to anyone!”
You don’t get off that easily, thought Tris.
She went to the bay at the end of the gallery and opened the windows. As far as she could tell, no one on this floor had taken advantage of the narrow terrace that wrapped around the building on this level. Tris knew it was there because she had looked down on it during her time in the house. Now it gave her a second way to get to Daja, one that Tris was irritable enough to use. Whatever mood she’s in, she had no right to upset Zhegorz, thought Tris angrily. Daja of all people should know how fragile our crazy man is!