The Thirteenth House (Twelve Houses) (29 page)

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Authors: Sharon Shinn

BOOK: The Thirteenth House (Twelve Houses)
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“My father thought it was time I attempted to be more sociable.”
 
“And is the experience as bad as you feared it would be?”
 
“So far, about what I expected.”
 
He grimaced. “Not good then. Your hopes cannot have been high.”
 
Kirra lifted her water glass and took a meditative sip. Casserah almost never drank wine. “I find hope inconvenient,” she replied. “But let us say I have not been disappointed.”
 
Darryn laughed. Kirra had the feeling he was one of the few people in Gillengaria who would find Casserah genuinely diverting. “Well, let me know if there is something I can do to make your stay less horrible,” he said.
 
“You could,” Kirra answered, leaning closer. “Tell me who these people are.”
 
He looked even more amused. “What? All of them?”
 
“I know Rafe Storian. I cannot remember anyone else’s name.”
 
“What about everyone else in the dining hall?”
 
“I don’t have to make conversation with
them.
”
 
So he whispered names to her and she thanked him gravely, and the rest of the meal proceeded smoothly enough. Toland—which happened to be the name of the serramar of Storian—turned out to be impossibly arrogant, a bit loutish, and desirous of a closer acquaintance with his near, powerful, and unmarried neighbor. Kirra would have handled him with her usual laughing ease, giving him no reason to suspect she disliked him, but Casserah was not quite so oblique. So she gave clipped answers to his sallies, refused to smile at his jokes, and offered no innocuous conversation to fill in any awkward moments in their conversation. Casserah was immune to awkward moments.
 
Most of the time, fortunately, talk at the small table was general. Marlady Clera Storian and the Stowfer girls wanted to gossip about the two most exciting and unexpected women in the room: the princess and Senneth. The topics were both so fruitful that even the men occasionally joined in.
 
First, Amalie. “Isn’t she pretty? Shy, though.”
 
“She looks so frail, don’t you think?”
 
“That’s just the color of her hair.”
 
“Do you think the king is trying to find her a husband? That’s why he’s sending her out to all the balls of the season?”
 
“Oh, surely he has someone in mind already. Someone from the four corners, wouldn’t you think?” The “four corners” always referred to the four most powerful Houses of Gillengaria: Brassenthwaite, Danalustrous, Gisseltess, and Fortunalt.
 
“Well, he’ll
hardly
marry her to anyone in Gisseltess! What with all the fuss Halchon has raised. Though—I don’t know—that might be the very thing to keep the peace.”
 
“And there aren’t any marriageable sons in Fortunalt or Danalustrous. But aren’t one or two of the Brassenthwaite brothers still unwed?”
 
“Yes, he might be looking toward Brassenthwaite.”
 
Which then reminded them of Senneth.
 
“I heard she was missing for seventeen years! Practically since the day I was
born
! And yet her brothers have taken her in and named her serramarra again.”
 
“But she’s—isn’t she—a mystic? How could they possibly trust her? And who would marry her?”
 
“Yet the king trusts her—”
 
“These are terrible times. Sorceresses making pacts with the king. Strange women masquerading as queen. And a pale little girl next in line for the throne. It makes me uneasy at night, it does.”
 
“I’ve begun wearing my moonstone to bed with me. It makes me feel safer.”
 
“So have I! For a mystic can’t harm you when you’re protected by the Pale Mother.”
 
“Coralinda Gisseltess has the right of it, in my opinion. Turn the mystics out. Burn them, if you have to. Destroy them all.”
 
“That still leaves the problem of the succession.”
 
“The king seems healthy enough.”
 
“He’s old. Do you really want to be ruled by that wisp of a girl?”
 
“There’s Romar.” That stiff observation came from Seth Stowfer, speaking up coldly to defend his kinsman. He’d been rather hot on the topic of mystics, though. “He will guide her.”
 
Rafe Storian shook his head. “She needs a stronger hand. A good husband who can keep the Houses in order.”
 
A squeal from one of the Stowfer girls. “Oooh, then you think she
is
attending the summer balls to find herself a husband—”
 
Kirra thought she might go mad if she had to sit there much longer listening to such talk, a mix of intolerance, speculation, and treason. Casserah, she thought, would surely have pushed herself away from the table and left the room.
 
Darryn caught her eye and smiled, then leaned a little closer to have what would pass for private communication. “Don’t let it bother you,” he said. “It’s all just talk.”
 
She gave him a cool look. “I cannot condone it.”
 
“The same conversation is going on at every table in the room, in every dining hall in Gillengaria. People are uneasy and trying to decide what to do.”
 
“They should look to their own lands and care for their own people. Then there will be no trouble.”
 
“What if trouble comes anyway?” he asked sadly.
 
She remembered again Rappengrass’s unfortunate placement on the southern edge of the continent, next to Fortunalt, not far from Gisseltess. No matter how loyal or isolationist Rappengrass might want to remain, it was likely to be sucked into any conflict.
 
“Where does Rappengrass stand?” she asked more bluntly than Kirra ever would.
 
Darryn nodded toward the central table, where Amalie sat. Senneth, Valri, and Eloise, the highest-ranking women present, filled out her table. Romar was beside his niece. Kirra had been doing her best not to give too much attention to that table during the course of the night. “Rappengrass is loyal to the crown,” he said in a very soft voice. “But the crown needs to be loyal to Rappengrass in return.”
 
“What does that mean?”
 
“Prove that Amalie is fit to rule. Make us believe that the crown is strong enough to withstand an insurrection. Show us some strength. Gather allies. Do not just sit back and wait upon events.”
 
Kirra took another sip of her water. “I think that is why the king has sent his daughter and his regent to this place. For just those reasons.”
 
“And is that why you are here as well?” he said, his voice even quieter. “To show solidarity? One never knows with Malcolm Danalustrous what his motives are.”
 
She met his eyes. “Even I could not always tell you that.”
 
He settled back in his chair, smiling a little at the rebuff, but not seeming offended. “My mother is preparing for war—I wonder if your father is,” he said. “I think your sister swung by Rappengrass a few months ago to talk strategy with my mother. Maybe I should do the same with your father.”
 
“We are always pleased to see you at Danan Hall.”
 
He smiled again and seemed to forcibly lighten his mood. “And is your sister there? I always enjoy her company so much. One of the most delightful women of my acquaintance.”
 
“She’s a mystic,” Casserah said flatly. “And haven’t you been paying attention? Some of your friends would cut you cold if they thought you called such a woman your friend.”
 
Darryn sighed and slumped a little in his chair. “At this point, I would boast of a friendship with Coralinda Gisseltess if I thought the Silver Lady had any power for healing,” he said. “But as far as I know, that’s not something the Daughters of the Pale Mother claim.”
 
Kirra tilted her head a little to one side. “Are you sick?”
 
“Not me. My oldest sister’s youngest girl. They think she’s dying and there’s nothing—” He made a gesture of helplessness.
 
Even Casserah would have showed sympathy at that. “What’s her illness? What cures have you tried?”
 
“Some strange wasting disease. They call it red-horse fever. And we’ve had a dozen healers come to the house, but no one can do anything. The feeling is she’ll be dead by summer’s end.”
 
“Darryn, I’m so sorry.”
 
He nodded. “So, if Kirra were here, I’d beg her to come visit my niece. I know she’s got some magical healing powers in her hands. I wouldn’t care if the Pale Mother damned me to some eternal hell if I could only keep that little girl alive.”
 
Kirra felt absolutely wretched—the more so because even if she had been in her own body, she would have been unable to offer him any comfort. “I’ve heard of this fever,” she said. “I have not heard of anyone recovering from it. I’m sorry.”
 
“Small problems in the middle of big ones,” he said. “But sometimes they seem to matter more.”
 
CHAPTER
15
 
F
INALLY, the sad, infuriating, confusing, interminable meal was at an end. The guests slowly rose and chattered their way into a salon just a short hallway from the dining room. Kirra was watching the placement of the guests, so she saw Romar escort his niece into the room, smiling down at her with an obvious affection. Amalie laughed as she talked with him, more animated than Kirra had yet seen her. So Romar Brendyn was kind to his dead sister’s daughter. One more thing about him that a person could not help but admire.
 
They hadn’t been in the salon three minutes, however, before Romar was supplanted by younger men, all eager to make themselves attractive to the princess. Kirra found an unoccupied seat beside a Coravann matron, accepted a cup of tea, and continued to watch the drama while pretending to listen to the conversation nearer at hand. Toland Storian seemed to be among the most determined of the suitors, continually elbowing aside less single-minded rivals to position himself at Amalie’s left hand. Darryn Rappengrass flirted with her for a few moments and moved on. Maybe seven other young men came and went, or came and lingered, during the thirty minutes that Kirra watched.
 
It was that long before she thought to look for Senneth, and even then she had to concentrate to locate her standing just outside the circle of eligible men. Pulling that invisibility trick again. So no one would distract her from her primary duty of guarding Amalie, or so she didn’t have to engage in the inane conversation that she despised even more than Casserah did? Kirra grinned and sipped her tea.
 
It was easier to spot Valri, a bit farther from the assiduous beaux but making no effort to hide and very little effort to hold up her part of the conversation with Seth Stowfer. Romar, on the other hand, had disappeared. Surely he had not been rude enough to leave the gathering altogether? No—fifteen minutes later she saw him enter the room again with some degree of stealth, stepping inside through a side door that led, if she remembered her house geography, to a hallway that fed into the garden.
 
Kirra grinned. Senneth and Casserah and Romar Brendyn should form their own private club of Nobles Who Hate Social Gatherings. They could all sneak out together, enjoy a little night air and a general moratorium on conversation, before slipping back inside to attempt to remain civil for another hour or two of vapid discussion. Surely Amalie could survive that long without any of them watching over her? They might even let Valri join their organization, since her expression clearly showed she wasn’t enjoying herself in the slightest and she’d never demonstrated much inclination for meaningless chatter in the past.
 
Kirra thought she might have more fun at the party if something interesting happened. A fight, perhaps. A raelynx loose on the premises. One of the Riders striding in to accuse someone of treason. She sat there a few minutes, seriously considering what diversion she might create, before concluding that no one, not even her friends, would thank her for making the evening any more difficult.
 
Instead she made some innocuous comment to the women sitting nearby and rose to get her teacup replenished. Maybe her unspoken prayer for excitement had been granted by one of the capricious gods; maybe she just got careless. When she turned around with a fresh cup in her hands, Romar Brendyn was standing right beside her.
 
“I’ve been waiting all night for someone to introduce me, but no one has,” he said. “So I thought I would be bold enough to approach you on my own. I’m Romar Brendyn. I believe you’re Casserah Danalustrous.”

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