Chapter One: A Betrothal

 

Midwinter, 443 H.E.

 

 

The Crystal Room had taken the better part of three years to restore.  Initially King Jonathan had not wanted to spend any portion of the royal coffers on something so frivolous: taxes had been suspended for the first year of his reign, and all funds collected from tariffs and taxes during the following year were redistributed to the people in Corus and other places damaged by Roger’s deeds.  But Duke Gareth wisely pointed out that the Crystal Room had been a part of every Midwinter celebration since the era of King Jonathan II, so Jonathan and Thayet did what they could to restore it to its natural glory.

 

And how, thought Buri, as she swept through the room in search of someone—anyone—who would talk of interesting matters.  With the births of the Crown Prince and the Princess Royal, Thayet’s company had been much altered from their years before coming to Tortall.  And Alanna seemed to have slipped into her own form of maternal bliss, now that she had a son.  Frankly, Buri’s sanity depended on a nice conversation about the Riders, or crossbows, or anything that didn’t have to do with babies or the voluminous red brocade dress Thayet had bullied her into wearing.

 

“You look lost,” Raoul slurred from his seat in the corner of the ballroom.  He was tucked into a small alcove, nearly concealed by a velvet curtain.  “And nice.”

 

“Thank you.”  She paused next to him.  “I think you have the right idea, hiding like this.”

 

He laughed a bit more sharply than she was used to.

 

“Do you have Midwinter plans?” she asked congenially, taking a seat next to him. 

 

“A bit of recruiting,” he answered.  He took a gulp from his glass of wine.  “Now that the land is back to normal, more sons can be spared.  I want to branch out and create another company, if Jon will let me.”

 

“A third?” Buri scoffed.  “Certainly not.  He doesn’t have the kind of funding for that—and if he did, he would certainly place it in something more important, since he just granted you your second company a year and a half ago.”

 

“Let me guess,” he slurred with a grin.  “You’d rather have an increase in Rider units?”

 

“Of course.  They’re more efficient.”  She could see that he wanted to protest, so she cut him off before he began.  “Let’s just celebrate.”

 

He nodded and exchanged his empty goblet for a full one when a tray-bearing squire passed by.  Buri didn’t particularly like Raoul when he was drunk, but it looked like he wasn’t far enough along in the process to make her want to leave.

 

“Thayet says the king has an announcement to make,” she said, gesturing to the dais, where the king and queen were sitting, immersed in a discussion with Lady Cythera of Elden, Thayet’s closest companion and social coordinator.

 

Raoul shrugged, staring at the royal pair.  “Alanna mentioned that,” he said finally.  His eyes, Buri noted, followed Lady Cythera as she crossed the room to speak to members of a string quartet.

 

They drank in silence, Buri unsure of what to say and Raoul apparently uninterested in discussion.  Snippets of conversations came to her ears: plans for fief improvements, aspirations for children, compliments on clothing.

 

But their comfortable, silent wine-drinking was halted when the king rose to his feet.  Conversations desisted and the lords and ladies of Tortall turned to face him.

 

“Tonight,” he began, flashing his brilliant smile, “we celebrate a great many things.  Another difficult season has passed, and we thank the gods for our survival.  We pray that our harvest will be more abundant next year, and that our struggles end in due time.  We celebrate the births and deaths of the year,” he said with a nod toward Raoul, who had recently become the Lord of Goldenlake upon his father’s passing, and Alanna, whose six-month-old son was asleep elsewhere in the palace.  “And of course, we celebrate the newest knight into our midst: young Sir Paxton of Nond is the first of a fine group of men to earn his shield this week.”

 

A smattering of applause punctuated this statement and a gangly eighteen-year-old boy in Nond brown gave a slight bow. 

 

“But there is another announcement to be made,” Jonathan continued, his smile turning playful, “and it is with great honor and delight that we begin the Midwinter festivities in such a manner.”

 

A murmur rippled through the ballroom, and Buri rolled her eyes.  Jon certainly had a gift with his subjects.

 

“Our Prime Minister, Sir Gareth of Naxen, has chosen to embark upon a new era of his life, and wishes for us to announce his betrothal.” 

 

Buri glanced at Raoul, who was buried in his wine goblet.  He did not look surprised—certainly as Gary’s closest friend he would have known about this all ready?  But he did not look happy.

 

Buri knew that Gary had been contemplating marriage for a while.  Earlier in the year they had, along with Raoul, openly mocked the king’s goal to have every one of their set married and having babies before the year ended.  But Gary had mentioned, not long later, that he had put his trust in his father to find the right match for him.  While others declared this tradition old-fashioned, Conservative, and fool-hardy, Buri suspected that Gary, now twenty-eight years old, had another reason for asking for his father’s help.  She suspected that the Prime Minister had a broken heart.  Perhaps, like most men she knew, he was enamored with Thayet, or maybe even Alanna. 

 

“Would you like to know who the promised lady is?” Jon asked with a laugh, pulling Gary to the front of the dais with him.  The king was light-hearted and thrilled, no doubt, at the prospect of political unions and a plethora of heirs for Tortall’s successful future.

 

Buri watched Raoul take another swig of wine from his goblet, a disgusted look etched upon his face, while the people around them cheered for the Prime Minister they had grown to love.

 

“Let us congratulate Lady Cythera of Elden,” the king shouted, sweeping his arm out to gesture to the most beautiful woman at court, save the queen.

 

All around them, people clapped and cheered.  Raoul, Buri observed, was silent.  He kept drinking, his eyebrows knit together as he glared at his best friend over the rim of his glass.

 

“You aren’t in love with her, are you?” she asked softly, touching his arm.

 

He choked, dribbling wine down the front of his tunic.  He swore and began dabbing at himself with a handkerchief.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scowled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, like a child.  He rose to his feet.  “I need some air.”  He made his way to the terrace doors, shuffling his feet and grabbing another goblet of wine.

 

On to Chapter 2!