Lord Anomander halted his horse and dropped down from the saddle. He strode to stand before Hish Tulla.
‘Sister of Night,’ he said, ‘our Mother’s blessing well suits you.’
‘In the absence of fair hues my age is made a mystery, you mean.’
Her comment silenced him and he frowned.
And so wound yourself. She evaded his eyes, regretting that she had made him stumble.
Gripp Galas spoke, ‘Forgive me, master-’
But Anomander raised a hand. Eyes still on Hish, he said, ‘I see the gravity your tale wears, Gripp, and would not discount it. I beg you, another moment.’
‘Of course, master.’ He clucked and guided his horse away, towards the head of the train.
Hish stared after him, feeling abandoned.
‘Will you dismount, Lady Hish?’
Startled, she did so and stood beside her horse’s head, the reins in her hand.
‘You gave no reply to my invitation, Lady. I admit to feeling shame at my presumption. It was long ago, after all, and the years have stretched a distance between us. But I still feel a child in your eyes.’
‘You were never that,’ she said. ‘And the shame was mine. See me here, yielding to the pity of your gesture.’
He stared at her, as if shocked.
‘I have been speaking with Gripp Galas,’ she said. ‘He is blunt in his ways, but I grew to appreciate his honesty.’
‘Lady,’ said Anomander, ‘Gripp is the least blunt man I know.’
‘Then I am played.’
‘No, never that. If he is made to guard his feelings, Lady Hish, he is known to grow discomforted. There is a tale, I expect, in his riding to you before me. The last I knew of him, he was on the road down from House Korlas, safeguarding a young hostage. It is not like him to disregard such a charge.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ and she heard a faint snap to her retort. ‘The child is in my keeping for now, and yes, there is a tale, but it belongs to Gripp.’
‘Very well.’
‘I am not one for unbridgeable divides, Lord Anomander.’
He considered that and seemed to relax. ‘If you imagine him to view you as would a father, you have stepped wrongly.’
‘I begin to comprehend that,’ she replied, ‘and now all footing is uncertain beneath me.’
‘That said,’ Anomander continued, ‘I am confident in believing Gripp Galas to be generous of spirit, and so he would not burn to see you upon my arm at my brother’s wedding.’
‘Will he have a place to stand in witness to the ceremony?’
‘Always.’
She nodded. ‘Then, Lord, I am here to take your arm.’
He flashed a smile. ‘And girded for war, no less. I did not think me so formidable.’ Then, instead of waiting for her to draw near, he stepped forward, and his eyes met hers, and he said, ‘Lady, your beauty leaves me breathless as ever, and once again I feel a wonder at the privilege of your regard, now and all those years past.’ I fear Gripp might not be so pleased with my words here, but I speak only in admiration.’
All words left her, spun beyond reach.
‘Pity, Lady Hish Tulla? I only pity those who know you not.’ He offered his arm. ‘Will you honour me by accepting my invitation?’
She nodded.
His wrist was solid as iron, as if it could bear not only the weight of an entire realm, but also her every regret.
When Anomander dismounted before Hish Tulla, Silchas Ruin twisted in his saddle and waved Kellaras closer. Leaving the company of Dathenar and Prazek, the captain rode up to the white-skinned warrior.
Silchas was smiling. ‘For a beautiful woman, your lord will make even a groom wait.’
‘There was an invitation, sir,’ Kellaras replied.
‘We did not think that she would accept, else I would have attempted the same and set myself as my brother’s rival. We might have come to blows. Crossed swords, even. Scores of dead, estates in flames, the sky itself a storm of lightning and fire. All for a woman.’
‘A thousand poets would bless the drama and the tragedy,’ Kellaras observed.
‘They’ll sift the dust and ashes,’ Silchas said, nodding, ‘for all the treasures they can only imagine, and in vicarious ecstasy they’ll invite wailing mourners into their audience, and make of every tear the most precious pearl. In this manner, captain, do poets adorn themselves in a world’s grief.’ He shrugged. ‘But the feast of two brothers warring over a woman is one too many poets have attended already. ’Tis easy to grow obese on folly.’
