More to the point, perhaps, her father had cherished the same suspicions, and when Prince Sailys had casually expressed himself as favoring the proposed match, Sir Ahdam Tayt had found it in his heart to accept the young earl’s offer for his second eldest daughter’s hand. It hadn’t been the sort of dashing, wealthy marriage young Karyl had dreamed of, but given the penurious fortunes of her branch of the Tayt dynasty, it hadn’t been anything to turn her nose up at, either. And he had been good-looking, her Styvyn. Better still, he’d had a sense of humor and a brain almost as good as hers. And even more than that, he’d had a heart that dearly wanted his new wife to be happy and to love him … in that order.
With all of that going for him, she thought now, smiling as she drew the shawl more tightly around her shoulders while she sat very close to the hearth, how could she not have done both?
The memory of his presence wrapped itself about her more warmly than any shawl, and her hazel eyes softened, gazing into the flames at something only she could see. They’d had thirty good years, she and Styvyn, years in which he’d risen to general’s rank in the Royal Army and stood foursquare by first Prince Sailys’ and then King Sailys’ side.
And he’d died by his king’s side, as well.
Her smile faded, and she huddled deeper into the shawl, turning away from the pain of that memory, choosing instead to remember again that first glimpse of Rydymak Keep against a spectacular summer sky of crimson coals and smoke-blue cloud banners. The Sunset Hills upon which it stood weren’t much, as hills went, compared to the lofty Iron Spine Mountains in whose shadows she’d grown to young womanhood. But in low-lying Cheshyr, they’d amply deserved the title, and she’d fallen in love with the stone cottages of her new husband’s capital city even before she’d finished falling in love with him. Even today, she made it a point, weather permitting, to walk Rydymak’s streets, personally visit the school built close up against the church, and chaffer with the vendors in the farmer’s market at least once every five-day. She often thought she knew every inhabitant by name, and if she didn’t, it certainly wasn’t for want of trying!
Yet for all its scenic beauty, Rydymak Keep was a monumentally uncomfortable place to live. Styvyn had built her a beautiful little solar as a fifth-anniversary wedding gift. Given the state of Cheshyr’s exchequer, it had been ruinously extravagant of him, but he hadn’t cared. And the bedroom of their suite had been carefully draft-proofed. He’d even installed an enormous Harchong-style tiled stove, despite her protests, and she’d scolded him mercilessly for that indulgence. After all, she’d grown up in Tayt! A Cheshyr winter was a mere trifle to an Iron Spine girl. Besides—she smiled again—she’d never needed a stove to keep her warm whenever Styvyn was home.
The rest of the keep, however, was just as drafty, cold, and thoroughly miserable in winter as it looked, and she wondered why she was sitting here in the library in the middle of the night. The high-backed, thickly cushioned chair was comfortable enough, but that could scarcely be said of the shadowy, high-ceilinged, frigid chamber in which it sat.
You’re sitting here because you’re lonely, you’re worried, and you’re frightened, she told herself tartly, looking up to watch the fire-flicker dance on the exposed beams overhead. And because this is the chair where you used to sit in Styvyn’s lap while the two of you read the same book. Because sitting here, with a little piece of him, you don’t care if you’re cold … and you’re just a little less frightened than you are lying awake in that big, warm, lonely bed.
She snorted and jabbed irritably at the single tear that leaked its treacherous way down her cheek. Feeling maudlin never solved a problem, she reminded herself sternly. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what was going to solve the one she found herself facing this time.
If only that miserable, unmitigated son-of-a-bitch hadn’t gotten his hooks into Young Styvyn, she thought bitterly. Or if only Young Styvyn had half the brain his grandfather and his father had! Bédard knows I love the boy, but—
She chopped that thought off. It wasn’t her grandson’s fault he wasn’t the most brilliant young man ever born, and maybe it was at least partly her fault that he’d fallen so readily into Zhasyn Seafarer’s hand. She did love him—she truly did—but she’d always been … disappointed by her inability to interest him in the books, the poetry, the history she and his grandfather—and, for that matter, his own father—had loved so much. Perhaps he’d sensed that disappointment, decided it meant she didn’t love him, or—even worse—that she thought poorly of him. Could that be why his glamorous second cousin had found it so easy to worm his poisonous way into the boy’s affections?
Doesn’t hurt that the slick bastard’s a duke and as rich as Cheshyr is poor, either, does it? she reflected. And he is family, whether I like it or not. Somehow that whole marriage didn’t work out the way Styvyn and Sailys hoped it would, and, oh, how I wish I hadn’t found myself in a position to say “I told you so” to the pair of them! I truly did love Pahtrysha, though. Of course, she couldn’t stand Zhasyn either. A brief, fond smile flitted across her lips. Always did have good taste, Pahtrysha did, especially for a Seafarmer. Look who she married!
The smile vanished as completely as the hope she’d once cherished that Pahtrysha Seafarmer’s marriage to her son Kahlvyn might open at least a small crack in the Dukes of Rock Coast’s adamantine opposition to the Crown’s dominance of Chisholm. The only Seafarmer they’d won to their cause in the end had been Pahtrysha herself … and she’d died in the same carriage accident which had paralyzed Kahlvyn and left him incapable of speech.
Sometimes I wonder what we did to draw Shan-wei’s hatred so strongly, she thought bitterly. Why has the world gone so far out of its way to demolish my family? Not even Father Kahrltyn can explain that one to me! It’s not like we haven’t always—
“Excuse me, My Lady.”
Karyl Rydmakyr bounced out of the chair with an agility at odds with her seventy-six winters. She landed at least a yard from it and whipped around, heart pounding, to stare at the blue-eyed young woman who couldn’t possibly be there. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak—or shout for help—the intruder raised a swift hand.
“Please, My Lady!” she said quickly in an accent that never came from Chisholm. “I’m a friend. In fact, Her Majesty sent me.”
Lady Karyl closed her mouth with a snap as she took in her impossible visitor’s blackened chain mail and the black-and-gold kraken and blue-and-white checkerboard blazoned across her breastplate. The mere fact that the intruder wore the accoutrements of the Imperial Charisian Guard didn’t guarantee one damned thing, but it certainly bore thinking upon.
“Friends don’t creep uninvited into locked rooms in someone else’s house, young woman!” she said acidly, instead of shouting for help.
Which might be just as well for the any servants in the house in question, she reflected as her pulse slowed and she took in the curved sword and what had to be a pair of the newfangled revolvers holstered at the intruder’s waist.
“They do if Her Majesty’s impressed them with the importance of making contact with you without anyone else knowing about it,” the young woman said respectfully, and Lady Karyl’s eyes narrowed.