Not quite the same as Aunt Grainne, but then again, not the same players. I said I was going to write about Cole and Hal, and instead I wrote this.
I say I’m going to do a lot things.
This was sort of an experiment in implication. I’m finding it hard to deal with New Book, in that I don’t want to let things lie. My instinct is to over-explain, which increases the word count, which is everything I don’t want. I mean for this story to verge on the too vague, though everything is, I hope, packet well enough in there to be understood if unpacked.
Anyway, I’ve amused myself. A conversation between Diarmaid and Aodhnait. Hope you like it.
The Princess Aodhnait sniffed and set a knuckle under her nose, which was a mistake. Her hands smelled of lavender, which she hated. Her ladies chose lavender to match her slight shift-style garment, a fashion of the south. So her scent 'matched' her hue, though, in fact, a chicory flower was more the color of her dress than the lavender brush. The halls smelled of chicory – faintly, though. So faintly, she put herself on her toes to try to catch it, but the bloody lavender had all but chased it away.
She could only do so because the hall was empty. The servants surely scuttled behind the walls, each of which were eight feet away, either side. Everything with royalty was like that – far away. So far away as to be faint, if present at all. It wouldn't do to be close.
Fallen to her heels, she set her hands just before her hips, ready any second to lift her skirt hems. An unnatural gesture for walking if ever there was, but a royal one. She didn't walk like a princess, anyway, so perhaps that was its unnaturalness. They said she went at a clip more like a brisk trot, though she stepped silent and smooth like she should. Give here, take there – she keep them spinning, like a child with a top, guiding with breath and twitches of the string.
She walked, only once encountering a stair. The way memorized, but unfamiliar. It didn't do to ask directions, either. She wasn't raised here, but the Palace at the heart of Ainjir's Capitol was her home, or had to be.
Not really 'at the heart' either – more like lungs, the little sweep of the Palace and its grounds compared to the great sweep of the Academy and its grounds. The heart was before one of the lungs, wasn't one? Mustn't one be smaller then, if only by a fraction? Which made the Palace closer to the heart.
And here she was. Aunt Lily's rooms. To open the doors herself, or not? What would he expect?
Open them.
She felt like a child – the only time she had met Aunt Lily, she'd been a child. Turning down the brass knob, shaped like a bit of antler, to lift open a door three times her width and twice her height. It was heavy, but moved without effort on silent hinges. He'd had them oiled, of course. Maybe done it himself.
Aunt Lily politely refused to have anything to do with her brother, Aodhnait's father. Disliked Aodhnait's mother, who felt just as dim in her memory as Aunt Lily sometimes. Stayed behind in her own wing of Palace when her father had taken the rest of the 'royal' court north – including Aodhnait, not always including Diarmaid. So what was this? Neutral ground. No echoes here for either of them.
And there he was. Sitting at a great round table in the center of a capacious foyer, off of which hung the rest of the suite of rooms. There was probably a kitchen back there, somewhere. A mud room. Aunt Lily liked to hunt. She had all she might need back here. In her day, as well, the fashion in dresses had been so wide maybe she needed extra large doors. Aodhnait swung shut the door behind her, latching it without a sound.
She approached the table, bird hands hovering over skirts, saw him with his leg up over one rounded edge, picking his fingernail with a belt buckle, and dropped her hands. He gestured. She sat. He took his leg down and swung around to face her.
He wore blue, too, deep, dark blue. It was lewd, the way this made him look. Military cut to his jacket, stripe on the side of his pants – he would have burnt such a thing before wearing it by choice. All wrong for his coloration. They matched. A silent plea, perhaps.
This was his meeting. Let him start.
“My sister,” he said fondly.
“My half-brother,” she replied.
He winced, looking at her with mock hurt in his eyes. He was good at that. “You needn't bring it up.”
“You oughtn't forget it.”
“You oughtn't depend on it, my sister of simultaneous conception.”
She blew like a bull, relaxing into her chair. At least the hard shell dresses of Aunt Lily's time had gone out of fashion. He referred to one of their half brothers, born within a week of Aodhnait, dead at 12 of fever. Of all their various siblings, Diarmaid's birth had been one of the cleanest – nine months, and then a prince.
“If only there'd been a marriage,” she mused to herself.
Diarmaid shrugged. “There was better – a choice.”
Now she frowned at him, her hurt not quite mock.
“Fah,” Diarmaid said, relaxing into his own chair, staring at his own hand drawing lazily on the table top, “it was not fault of your own that he never would have chosen you. No need to be angry on that account.”
She thought about denying her anger – she wasn't angry, anyway – but that was futile. Denying anything to Diarmaid only gave him fuel. She folded her arms.
“Interesting you should bring up succession, however,” Diarmaid said rolling his head around to look at her, blisteringly charming smile in full effect.
That was another of his talents, which she envied deeply: being able to make other people bring up the subject he wanted to discuss. Making it their responsibility.
“What is there to bring up?” she asked, her ability to manufacture innocence on full display. “Father chose you.”
He almost laughed. Narrowed eyes over a half-grin. “You chose that whip of a lieutenant.”
“General,” she said, demurely.
“They tried to demote him on their own,” Diarmaid said.
“I know,” she replied, tracing her own lazy patterns on the shining wood. “You would never do something so clumsy.”
“Not when there's someone to do it for me,” he asserted, sighing into a further slump.
They could both relax. It was nice, really. What a great idea, to have this meeting in this place. Her brother wasn't stupid. She watched her finger leave grease streaks – probably that lavender shit in the water they cleansed her hands with – on the dark wood.
The whole room was a vaulted affair, full of dark wood. Octagonal, three walls held enormous windows, set about with tools of the hunt. One wall held the great door, and three held smaller doors, lintels crowned by long paintings of coursing animals. The final one held one great portrait, of dogs an actual bridle on one side, crop on the other, and table with an empty drinks set. The rest was awash in almost-black wood, polished to a shine. Somebody was dusting the place, too. Or maybe, Diarmaid had had it dusted, just for this.
“I doubt Aunt Lily would have liked me,” Diarmaid said, “but I do like a good hunt.”
Aodhnait made a non-committal noise she usually reserved for courtiers. Diarmaid actually did appear a tad hurt, for a moment.
There was too much to think about.
“I suppose I tried to do the same,” Diarmaid said. “In war and love, the balance is fixed, or so they say.”
“You mis-stepped, brother,” she replied.
“I waited too long,” he said. “That fool told me I had all the time in the world to make my case. I waited. I could have had my way the eve of graduation, you know – I never err in that estimation, sister.”
“I don't doubt,” Aodhnait said, and she didn't. She chose not to spend this moment thinking of the implications of that – saved the thought for later.
“I never should have listened to Durant,” Diarmaid grumbled, in half-pout. “I thought to make my case stronger – ah, but it's nothing, now. I tried, and failed – you tried, and what?”
He glanced at her, and she wished he would glance away again. He saw entirely too much. “Well, I won't fail,” she said.
“You haven't quite succeeded,” he said, smiling.
“I won't fail,” she reiterated; that retreat, as the military said, had already been cut off.
“What do you hope to gain, though – for it's not the same,” Diarmaid said. He sat up again, chuckling. “Oh, my word, it is not the same anymore, is it? Your general doesn't command the respect mine did.”
“Does,” she corrected, showing a card, but fair was fair.
“Does to what effect?” Diarmaid replied.
She didn't respond. He hadn't earned that information at all.
“What will happen when the beloved brigadier returns? Do you think he'll march to the rescue of his lieutenant?” He laughed, but not at her. “How do they even keep track of such ridiculous titles?”
“Wouldn't that be foolish,” she said, in her court lady's voice.
“On his and your account – you realize he has ambitions of his own? What makes you think that when General Cole returns, conquering hero that he is, he won't simply take the throne entirely? By what means do you think you could keep it from him, if he fights for you?”
“The Midraeic won't let him,” Aodhnait said.
“The Midraeic will be lucky to make it through the countryside with his skin.”
“Not with General Cole there,” she replied. She gave him a tight, mocking smile. He grunted at her.
“All the more reason for him to reach for the throne,” Diarmaid objected – but this was court-sense. They both knew well enough the Midraeic's objections would carry uncanny weight. “Don't tell me that you don't think it's a dangerous move.”
She shrugged, leaning down to let her breath fog the table. “Dangerous, but not unmanageable. The minute the Midraeic returns all the ills of the rebellion will, as well. They didn't catch that man in Teorainn, the one who began it all. Jacques or whatever his name was.”
“Gaius,” Diarmaid said, spreading his hands as he savored the word. “I've come to enjoy some Midraeic words.”
“The Midraeic returns – he knows the longer he stays the more likely it is the country will suffer again. It unbinds the field – Ainjir becomes huntable land. The longer they stay, the more likely they will be bound here, and in truth, neither will want that.”
“Cole would want it.”
“Cole will be overruled.”
“You can't be certain.”
“The effort required to hold the throne with the Midraeic would destroy them, and we have both seen the lengths to which he will go to keep him. They know war – not rule.”
“You play a dangerous game with rulership yourself,” Diarmaid said. “I wonder if you know it as well as you think you do.”
“After our last contest, you doubt me?” she replied, raising her head, eyes afire.
He smiled indulgently at her. “Does your Lieutenant know you don't love him?”
Her gaze shot to him like a bolt, but she said nothing.
“Do you think that low of me? After our last contest, it's only fair. At every turn, I have made mistakes,” he said, stretching in his chair, addressing his words to ceiling, “yet each one has offered Cole the lesser of two evils. I could have had him graduation night, and held his guilt over him like an executioner's axe, but I chose not to. I could have killed his lover, down in the dark, and yet I did not. You may have offered doors, but they have only opened because I unlocked them. If you do this, what makes you so certain Grand Dux and General will fight, and what makes you think they will fight for you?”
'If' he said – so that was why they met. Did he not know it was done? Was his flash of a steel a warning or a threat?
“That I never put them to such purposeful use in the first place,” she replied.
“Just his little whip,” Diarmaid said, laughing as he leaned over the cool wood, “just that hand-raised chickling he brought up to take his place. Love or no,” he added, noting her expression, “it is use at its finest.”
“And what do you have to offer?” she asked. “The dubious honor of having not slept with the most prolific cadet of his day?”
“To a kingdom yet still reeling from a religious rebellion? Everything. Order. Stability. Familiarity.” Diarmaid touched the tabletop lightly, as if his designs were still there. “Tell me, will you yet feast with your lieutenant over a tattooed goose? Or does he even know yet of your... proclivities.”
“Only men do that, Diarmaid.” Aodhnait sighed. “And it's a duck. And everyone still does something like it, anyway – some ceremonial gesture. Everyone who marries, that is.”
“I will have a passel of kits, like Father,” Diarmaid said, laughing.
“Bastards, every one,” Aodhnait finished his joke for him, rolling her eyes.
“But you can't hide from me, sister,” he said. “How do you think they all will take your adherence to the old ways?”
“However I give it to them,” she replied, holding his gaze.
“I doubt our prolific cadet will take it so lightly.”
“He won't be staying.”
Diarmaid laughed again. “You are nothing if not determined.”
“You plan to do nothing,” Aodhnait said, narrowing her eyes at him. Diarmaid shrugged. A palpable hit. “You who fought so hard to become Father's chosen – now you won't defend your seat? What kind of sense does that make?”
“As much sense as she who would never be chosen fighting to gain my seat.”
“There were Queens once,” she said. “There will be one again.”
Diarmaid laughed. “You want both crown and sword, such as haven't been held since the First Rebellion. Oh, my sister. All those years holed up in the north with our father as he died. They tried to tell me you lacked ambition.” His fond smile faded. “This does sound awfully serious, though. Shall we do this? Shall we go to war?”
“Don't pretend,” she scoffed. “We won't go anywhere.”
His smile returned. She touched her brow in recognition. That goal they shared.
“Well, well, well,” Diarmaid said, sighing. He leaned back, cradling his head in his hands. “I suppose it was inevitable, there being two of us. Whatever Father taught you up north surely gave you confidence.”
“Father taught me nothing,” Aodhnait replied. “I learned.”
Diarmaid paused, then swept a hand out towards the room.
“You've never hunted have you?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I've heard of your career. I can't say I'm terribly interested.”
“Ah, not that hunt – Aunt Lily's hunt, which I do enjoy in its own right.” He watched her, projecting in every way that he was not watching. “It's not something I recommend undertaking without being taught. There is a subtlety to it. Seeing a hunt, most would want to be the Master Hunstman – he is, after all, the one directing the hunt, and shouting the orders, and giving everyone their part. He gets to blow the horn to spur the hunters, but he does not release the hounds. The hunt is made by the hounds. That's why he who chooses the Huntsman is the Master of Hounds. A less sterling title, but a more comprehensive power. The Master of Hounds runs the kennels, releases the hounds, holds title to the paddocks and pays to unbind the fields – that is why he also divides the meat. Direct the dogs and be master for a day, for the length of a hunt, perhaps – raise them, feed them, and be their master for life.”
She looked down. She had stopped drawing complex designs on the table, satisfied with the streaks her fingertips left as she dragged them in, then spread them out. She liked this table; patterns of dark wood and light, in triangles within rings that then became stars and then gave over to a solid circle of dark wood again. She probably would have liked Aunt Lily, she guessed, though she was almost certain Aunt Lily would not have liked her. She did have ambition.
“You will be this Master by letting your enemies run rampant.”
“I will let them see who blows the horn,” he said, “and who releases the hounds.”
She paused. “Speaking of game and tradition, do you know how to how to tattoo?”
“Don't the barbarians of Teorainn do that?” But he sighed indulgently, and played her game, as she had played his. “No,” he said, “I don't.”
“You find a clear patch of skin, get a little ash, a hammer, and a sharp stick.” She stood up, pressing her fingertips on last time, and looked her brother in the eye. “Then you stab repeatedly, and change it forever.”
She hated being told she needed to be taught.
He looked vaguely disgusted. She lifted her hands. King Diarmaid flinched.
So back in the yonder mists of time, @dharmagun (I think?) gave me the prompt “Ladies’ Night,” and this is what I came up with. Princess Aodhnait meets the sisters Galen. It is, as usual, way too long, and I don’t think the ending is great, but what can you do. I still mean to do one with Nero’s bunch, when my brain is geared for modernity again.
Here you go:
Auriol was a creature of grace.
Once, Aodhnait had been invited to her father’s doctor’s study – there were dozens of physicians, of course, for a king, but he only called one ‘doctor.’ That that one was a relentless quack was somehow fitting.
At any rate, he had walls and stands and desks full of phials for various uses – the Gods knew what, she was so young she hadn’t even thought to ask – and there were those among them with curious lips and beaks, tiny and thin, for holding the smallest of drops of fluids. They were fine and delicate and he moved them like delicate flowers, and she looked at Auriol and thought of them.
They would sting like whips, she thought now – not then, but older, wiser. Not even that, perhaps of an age. A budding princess.
Budding like a frog. She crouched in the dark, momentarily amphibian, and watched Auriol pour tea for her sisters. Of course she would pour the tea for her sisters; it was a thought entirely foreign to Aodhnait, but second nature to that woman, over there. It didn’t make her harmless, being considerate.
Oh, bollocks. She never could think in anything but politics. Goes with being raised by dogs. Her knees popped as he wiggled them into motion, which wasn’t a very princess-like way to enter a room – staggering on creaky knees.
“... and then he just whipped it out – this floppy little thing – and when I didn’t, I don’t know, faint? He kind of wiggled it.” Ursula flopped her hand over on a limp wrist, and Catillia laughed so hard she fell out of her chair. “Like he thought I should be impressed.”
Laeta drank hurriedly, so she wouldn’t laugh, which only resulted in her almost choking. She was the one who looked like her brother.
Auriol smiled demurely, but simply kept pouring tea in a steady stream.
Spesnova, the new hope, turned a deep purple-red, frozen in her seat with her hand on what must have been a very hot mug.
Ursula took a stalk of seasoned celery from the plate in the middle of table and poked it at her sister-statue. Laeta snatched it from her hand and haughtily ate it. Catillia dragged herself up from the floor, but only to reach her glass, which she brought down to remain sitting where she was.
Princess Aodhnait stepped out of the shadows. Then she waited, as another wiggly demonstration from the celery sent everyone into paralysis and/or laughter again. The Princess Aodhnait sort of had to clear her throat.
Auriol – of course – looked up first. She wasn’t shocked. Machaja bless her, she should have been born a princess. Auriol just smiled and went to get another mug.
Laeta stood up so quickly she banged her thigh on the table. Spesnova followed soon after – well, Laeta had met Aodhnait very peripherally before, so she would recognize the princess, whereas Spesnova hadn’t really ever gotten a clear meeting. Ursula scowled, but perhaps it was just her natural reaction to surprise. Aodhnait’s guards would not have liked it at all..
Catillia shouted what must have been a word of inquiry in Midraeic, then lobbed the leafy bits of a celery stalk at the princess. Aodhnait, finely trained in courtly graces, knew better than to try to move suddenly, so they hit the front of her dress and fell to the floor. Catillia said something else, which by the color of Spesnova’s cheeks must not have been nice, picked up another stalk, and mimed throwing them more gently.
Before she got to the final toss, Ursula stood up and chucked her own celery at her.
“Greetings, Princess,” Auriol said, in a voice like honey, warm as the sunset colors hiding in her dark hair. She floated over and presented Aodhnait with a tiny curtsey and a very nice cup of tea. “Be welcome and find comfort here.”
“What the fuck is that about?” Catillia said.
“It’s a goddamn princess,” Ursula said.
“YES PLEASE BE WELCOME, PRINCESS,” Laeta said, in Ainjir.
“What the fuck is a princess doing here?” Catillia asked, staggering up.
Aodhnait didn’t understand Midraeic. Oh she knew a little, sure. Somehow, he had thought maybe the sisters would speak Ainjir in an Ainjir house, and that, she realized, had been a foolish and hopeful thought born of nothing but her own desire. “Thank you for the warm welcome, but please, do not exert yourself on my behalf.”
Oh, Gods of politics, would they even understand the word ‘exert’? Was it insulting to use another word at the moment? The sisters exchanged those sorts of looks, that siblings could have – yes, as she and her brother had, though presumably these siblings weren’t raised to oppose and consume each other. A whole conversation passed.
Auriol stepped forward again and insisted a cup into the princess’ hand, smiling like the steam rising delicately from the cup. This smile, in itself, was a diplomatic feat.
“Thank you,” Aodhnait said.
Auriol made a gesture implying the desire for a napkin, which the princess declined. With a delicate little kick, she sent the celery stalk on the floor into a corner of the room.
“The hens will get it.” Auriol said, as she walked away, signaling her sisters to sit.
“Please,” Aodhnait said, putting on her best ‘I’m your princess but only a princess’ smile. “I am sorry to disturb your evening. I only hoped to join you, if I might, as... as a fellow woman.”
“What?” Catillia said, her nose wrinkling over the table ledge.
“Well, please, forgive the subterfuge, but I had so wanted to meet you all, having heard so much, that I asked to be told when an opportune evening occurred that I might.” They were staring at her. Quite a range of reactions on display. It was a sensation she was used to. Her father’s court had been more roundabout, but no less... evocative.
“What,” Catillia insisted. Like with a hound, Aodhnait wished she could see her teeth, to at least gauge the timing and hurt of the bite.
“Well, I haven’t many... women friends...“ Aodhnait took a risk. Wasn’t this all taking a risk? Not that much of a risk, as it wasn’t as if these people could harm her – but still. “And... well, I... I rather wished I could some honest advice. I... I’m getting married,” she said. She attempted the choked-but-excited giggle that had so awed the generals and advisors who had been secretly plotting her death for years.
It didn’t work. Like a little girl amongst her father’s hounds, again, she wanted to shut her eyes a little. Like the princess who had dethroned her own brother, however, she waited in the awkward silence to see who would break and who would play.
“Bullshit,” Ursula said.
“Ursula!” Spesnova hissed.
“Bullshit,” Catillia translated, standing up.
Auriol poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.
“Well, it’s true,” Aodhnait said.
“Technically, yes,” Ursula said, wiggling her celery at the princess. “But what could we tell you that you didn’t already know?”
“Well,” Aodhnait said, “I was raised by my father, without a mother, and my knowledge of female arts...”
“I think the princess just called you a slut, Ursula,” Catillia said.
“Oh, sweet Word of God, could we not do this to royalty?” Laeta mumbled into her tea.
“What?” Catillia said, “Royalty’s doing it to us.” She made a quick switch to Ainjir, her accent heavier than her sisters’. “Anyway, we helped save royalty’s ass.” She put fists to her hips and narrowed her eyes at Aodhnait.
Auriol gently took Spesnova’s hand off her mug.
“I’m not sure that’s entirely how that went,” Aodhnait said. Clearly, soft and sweet wasn’t working on these women. “I seem to recall a certain amount of pardoning was required...”
“Oooo,” Ursula said, raising her brows at her sisters.
“No, you can’t,” Catillia said. “I don’t trust you.”
“You’re going to get us murdered,” Laeta declared. “You realize you’re still married to a traitor, right?”
“So?” Catillia said. “You’re related to one.”
“He’s married to a traitor, too,” Ursula added, helpfully.
“Well, only because marrying a traitor makes you a traitor,” Laeta said.
“Eha!” Catillia said, laughing. “I think Erasmus is smart enough to have come around to being a traitor eventually. Maybe.”
“This is all very bad,” Aodhnait said, even though no one seemed to be listening. “Very bad for me to be hearing.”
“Next time come earlier,” Auriol said, serenely sipping her tea. “It’s tea after spirits for us.”
The Princess nodded her thanks; the conversation continued undisturbed.
“I don’t know,” Ursula said, leaning back in her chair. “They don’t often come in pretty and smart.”
“Oh, he’s not that pretty,” Catillia shot back.
“But our brother is very handsome,” Laeta said, fiercely.
“Point made!” Ursula cried.
Auriol stood up, and everything ground to a halt. She walked over to Aodhnait, repeated her little curtsey and smile, guided her over to a seat. Aodhnait was going to object – there were a wide variety of reasons to object – but Auriol’s politeness was compelling. She sat.
Gliding over to her own seat, Auriol resumed her mug. Her honey-sweet voice barely stirred the steam. “General Guy must have told you to come, as he and Advocate Archambault are the only ones who would know we were here.”
“It was Guy,” Catillia said, without anger. “Faerghal is too paranoid. Faerghal would never tell anyone where to find us when I am here; the Princess visits tonight because she knows that if it goes poorly she can hold my freedom over us as leverage for silence.”
“Eha!” Ursula said, hissing her displeasure. “The little one gave us away!”
“Guy is at least a head and half taller than you, Urusula,” Laeta sighed.
“But he’s skinny,” she replied. “I don’t trust skinny people.”
“You’re a few stone short of a talking cow, then,” Laeta said, frowning at her sister.
“Well!” Catillia said, both shouting and standing over the conversation this last would have caused “Then it is doubly good I will be fat with child any day now, as my dearest sister will trust me in saying that I not for one moment believe that the Princess of Ainjir has any need to ask a bunch of Midraeic traitors’ sisters anything about womanly arts.”
It was undignified for the Princess of Ainjir to thank the gods – not to mention highly suspect in certain circles – even more especially for when her plans fell through – so she did so silently. Nothing in Aodhnait’s Midraeic lore had prepared her for allusions to talking cows.
With some heaviness of step, Catillia resumed her seat. “Well, I hope it isn’t politics. Politics are boring talk for family gatherings.”
“I think politics are very interesting,” Laeta said in a conciliatory tone, but her eyebrows were raised dubiously.
“I love politics,” Usula said.
“You would,” Catillia replied.
“Well, so do you,” Ursula returned, pouting.
“Not so – I will just do anything to keep my husband out of it,” Catillia said, rolling her eyes. The rest of the sisters laughed or tried to stop themselves laughing, as fitting.
Auriol, despite remaining for the most part silent, managed to insert a moment for Aodhnait to speak with a particularly loud breath. Aodhnait wasn’t sure if Auriol should be requested to attend her at court or assassinated.
“Well, there is a political aspect to it,” Aodhnait said. “In a certain sense it cannot help but be political, given who I am.”
“You should write our brother,” Urusla said.
“Oh, Prophet, no,” Catillia blurted. “Write to his pony.”
“I...” what was the delicate way to put this...?
“General Cole is perhaps too close to the issue at hand?” Auriol said.
That was one way to put it. One could also say that General Cole was far too fond of politics and politics were far too fond of them in return. Or, yet again, that he reminded Aodhnait of her father, in that slavering, blood-drawing, eat-your-kin way of his.
“Yes,” Aodhnait, Catillia, and Laeta said together. Ursula just smiled wickedly, which made Aodhnait somehow fear for the money purse she didn’t ever carry. Or own.
They were all silent. They were all staring. Even in court, Aodhnait had never felt so strongly that if she didn’t take the floor someone would bash it up from the ground and movie it several baronies over before she could get a second chance to hold it.
Aodhnait cleared her throat. “Despite what you think, it really is about marriage – however any marriage I should contract is bound to have repercussions, and with the delicate state of relations with my people – in particular the Midraeic people – I simply wanted a set of opinions with more relevance to my people. My advisors are very capable of political thought, however very few could even begin to relate to the average person of Ainjir. Without inflating my own abilities, I feel a I have a firm grasp on the political repercussions of any given union I may initiate, however, if nothing else, the last few years have shown the power of the average person’s judgment on a given political situation. I would like to not exacerbate or alienate my people – not to continue the cycle of coup, degeneration, uprising, coup that has marked the history of Ainjir for half a millennium.”
The sisters were still staring. It was sort of fun – one could make a game of trying to read each’s expression, like one could survey a crowd of nobles and figure out who was feuding and who was... well, friendly with each other. Aodhnait began to feel confident.
“I have several potential matches I could pursue...”
“Bullshit,” Catillia said, sipping her tea. All the heads swiveled towards her.
“Bullshit,” Ursula translated, to a scandalized, but also thoroughly defeated, Laeta. The heads swiveled back to the Princess.
“That could be interpreted as a very insulting–” Aodhnait began.
“Eha,” Catillia said, waving a hand dismissively. Even Auriol didn’t rise to Aodhnait’s defense this time.
All right. The Princess folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, so what is so unbelievable this time?”
“There is one match,” Catillia said. “
Even the other sisters were looking at Catillia, so this was not a wholesale loss of secrecy. The panic she felt that she might have learned anything was, in fact, entirely irrational. Aodhnait had told no one – in fact, there was literally not another person, living or dead, divine or mortal, plant or animal, with whom she had discussed the idea. Until a week or two ago, she hadn’t even ceded to the plan originally concocted in her be-gauzed childhood suites to never marry anyone so that she might never have to share power. The next promise, to have no one ever so close they might share any true intimate secrets or thoughts simply reinforced the notion that her heart palpitating like a rabbit’s was entirely out of order.
“General Guy,” Catillia said. The sisters reacted in gasps, crossed arms, and pleased but not excessive surprise (two bits to the person who guessed who did the last one, Aodhnait thought).
Aodhnait said nothing, though. What could she say? Catillia gave no indication that she at all could be made to doubt her guess – if it was a guess, and she were not some Midraeic witch of the mind. To deny it would only make it more certain, as Aodhnait’s whole cause here was the get their opinion on that very match. It was frustrating. Extremely frustrating.
“It is not so hard to guess,” Catillia said, consolingly but not eliminating the suspicion of mind-witchery. “Nobody else in the Capitol knows Guy beyond the role he played in our brother’s escape – even Faerghal. Besides that, your brother attempted the same thing twice with Dominicus’ pony.”
She thought, for the first time, she understood how pleased her brother could be that General Cole had opted to whisk himself away with his dangerous lover.
All the sisters were staring again, and this time it was at her, and this time she didn’t like it.
Aodhnait didn’t like Catillia. Or, rather, it wasn’t that – Aodhnait didn’t like it when other people were right. Especially when their perspicacity implied she didn’t know what she was getting into. Until actually meeting these women, she had been very sure. How could a bunch of Midraeic women – Midraeic women who spent most of the last few years shut away from the war – rhetorically outmaneuver her? She was Princess of Ainjir. She was the Ox’s daughter. She was the brother-usurper, father-denier, traitor-saver – she was otter argent, under and over her foes like the water itself.
She was, apparently, an open fucking book to this lot.
“Oh, my God!” Spesnova said. Unhappily shocked by the first words out of the silent sister in what seemed liked hours, Aodhnait had already whipped around to look at her before she could stop herself. Spesnova took her hands down from over her mouth to reveal a slightly teary smile. She stood up, taking tiny shuffling steps towards Aodhnait, and hugged her princess about the shoulders.
If Aodhnait’s guards had been here, they would most definitely had not liked that. At all. There would most certainly have been blood and a severe talking to later. She should have done something.
That’s why she’d left them, though. Guarding a handmaid dressed as her to an assignation with the Families. The handmaid, in turn, thought Aodhnait was enjoying much needed reading time, under the eye of an older handmaid, as her social schedule was always so busy and she was constantly pestered to do yet more. The older handmaid had been selected for her part precisely because she believed the princess to be such a nitwit she couldn’t possibly be doing anything much more interesting than reading, and would, besides that, do her utmost to avoid having to deal with Aodhnait, including faking a ‘check’ on her should she be asked.
Clever. Planned. Prepared. And completely defeated. Well – not by anyone in the palace. So that was nice.
Spesnova was squealing her way back to her chair; Auriol had glided up again to retrieve what was, most certainly, a bottle of something much harder than tea and some glasses. Ursula kept demanding ‘what?’ in Midraeic, and Laeta looked as if she were going to drop dead at the table.
As Auriol smilingly pressed a glass of something so strong it hurt the princess’ nose from a foot away, Catillia threw her hands up in a gesture of congratulations. “De’s fortunae!”
“Don’t worry,” Auriol said, consolingly. “She does this to everybody.”
“WHAT!?” Ursula finally shouted loud enough to deserve response.
“Is it appropriate to say it outright now?” Catillia asked, with unusual diplomacy.
“I don’t even know,” Aodhnait said.
“General Guy is going to be married!” Spesnova said, before Catillia could. Catillia just smiled and poured her a glass from Auriol’s bottle.
“What?” Ursula asked in a much more reasonable tone, glass held out.
“Oh, why else would a princess want to talk to us?” Catillia said, disdainfully. She slid a full glass over the table to Aodhnait, raising her own in salute.
“Well,” Laeta said, “I think he’s a very good pick.”
“What do we know about General Guy that a princess wants to talk to us?” Ursula said, but raised her glass as well.
Laeta shrugged. “I think we’re the only people in town he knows. He works too much. He needs a hobby.”
“He’s going to be so happy,” Spesnova said. “You have to tell him soon.”
It was a bit overwhelming. Aodhnait sipped her glass – it was, surprisingly, good. She knew of the type of liquor, though she’d never had it. It was Ainjir spirits of the sort that coal miners drank when they had a good find.
“Tell him?” Aodhnait said. “Isn’t it usually a question?”
“You’re a princess!” Laeta said, shocked at the very notion.
Aodhnait smiled. “Oh, I see.”
“Do you now?” Catillia asked. All of the sisters fell dead silent. Auriol sipped her liquor like a lady at court. “Because, yes, we will tell you all you wish to know about womanly arts, men and their peculiarities – especially Ursula–”
“Eha!” Ursula objected.
“– even though she’s still a virgin,” Catillia went on. Laeta’s forehead thumped on the table. “But at the end of the day, we cannot tell you whether General Guy is trustworthy, whether he will let you rule the country as you rule his heart, whether he can be swayed towards or away from you by others. That, you will have to find out for yourself. That is the important part of a marriage.”
“Well, thank you for that life lesson,” Aodhnait said, perhaps more acidly than she should have. “But I haven’t even decided on General Guy yet – oh, don’t you dare say bullshit to me again.”
“Or what?” Catillia said, snorting. She filled her own glass again and slid it over so it knocked in Aodhnait’s. “You’ll have me sent to the dungeons? I can tell you, my princess, that nothing will be as frightening to me as meeting my husband for the first time when our hands joined at the feet of his father. Your dungeons do not frighten me – especially if they weren’t even good enough to break my little brother.”
Aodhnait only held Catillia’s gaze for a moment – a moment she would be proud of for quite some time – before she finished her glass, slid the empty to Catillia, and raised Catillia’s glass to her for a drink.
“Oh,” Aodhnait said, “they weren’t even trying that hard.”
Catillia laughed. Aodhnait tasted her next breath like she’d just said the first free words of her life. She had stood before the whole of court and told the highest authorities of Ainjir to go sit on a fencepost when she was thirteen, and the feeling could barely compare.
They hadn’t suffered – those lords – they hadn’t lost anything. These women had had things taken from them – by her decisions, and by others. By death and honor was she glad they didn’t compare.
“You don’t need to try to make her feel bad,” Laeta said. “She didn’t even put our brother there.”
“No,” Ursula said, “that dumbass volunteered.”
“To save the country,” Spesnova interjected.
“To fuck a heathen,” Catillia said.
“They got married,” Laeta offered, as some kind of excuse.
“And he is a very pretty heathen,” Ursula added.
“He’s fine,” Catillia said. “A little dim. Very Ainjir. Almost good enough for Dominicus.”
“Saving him from the dungeons wasn’t good enough?” Laeta asked, head on the table.
“When he converts,” Catillia said, to a resounding sea of nods, “I’ll think about it.”
“You said I rule his heart,” Aodhnait said. All the ladies stopped speaking, looking first at her, and then at Catillia.
Catillia’s smile spread slow as sunrise. Aodhnait wanted deeply for it to be the liquor – she even took a hearty sip, heartier than she should have, because she coughed, and then there was no end to the rise of heat in her cheeks and no way to stop her smiling back.
Then everyone threw their hands in the air, and there was such a babble of congratulatory Midraeic she felt suddenly as if out in the market at midday. She’d never been out in the market at midday, nor had she ever heard these words before, but there was, somehow, no mistaking it. The bottle made it way back to her, and though the glass wasn’t half-empty they topped her off.
