I was maddened with it… and with Karon, who kept trying to ease my worry. “Come now, I look less like a Kerotean than does Evard himself, and, besides, I hate winter travel.” I didn’t laugh.
“Come here”—he gathered me into his arms—“I will take care. I promise.”
On one such occasion, as he tried to placate me with more empty assurances, I told him at last of killing the man at Threadinghall. “I would do it again to protect you,” I said. “But now I can’t see who’s creeping up on you, and I’m going to go mad with it. How can you live this way? You need to take responsibility for yourself.”
He was not angry at what I had done. Not revolted, as I’d feared for all these weeks. Shocked, yes; he had not seen the man fall. Grieved, yes, that I had done so ponderous a deed and felt I could not tell him, bearing the weight of it alone. But my accusation of irresponsibility cut deep. He stood beside the garden door, its panes garlanded with snow, his face as pale as the flakes still falling so softly. “I can’t tell you how to live, Seri,” he said after a long pause. “You are who you are, and I would not change you. Your love, your goodness, and your courage are the joy of my life, and this act tells me nothing about you that I have not known and treasured all these years. But you cannot ask me to make the same choices. My calling, my power, demand different things of me. Stars of night, do you think this is easy?”
I listened only to my own fear, not his. “Sometimes it’s easier not to fight. To follow the rules, to let your ancestors make your decisions, to let terrible things happen and claim it is for the greater good.”
“Sometimes fighting destroys the thing you’re fighting for.”
I hated this discussion. “Then either way I’ll lose you, and I can’t bear the thought of it.” And then I was in his arms, and he was stroking my hair and promising again to take care. But nothing had changed.
Whether responding to my prompting or his own caution, Karon stayed close to home as the days grew shorter, venturing only to the antiquities workrooms. We no longer practiced mind-speaking. He said such things were better left for easier times.
After several Valloreans were arrested and executed for spying for the Kerotean sorcerers, Karon said he would neither work any sorcery nor speak of it again, not even to me. “Habits,” he said, as he knelt by the hearth and burned his translation of the Writer’s journal, along with my transcription and all our notes. “They’re the key to safety. If your mouth is trained to say nothing of sorcery, then words cannot betray you. If your mind is trained to forget all you know of it, then you cannot inadvertently slip a reference into a discussion.” He traced a smile on my face with his finger. “I’ve become too comfortable, relaxed my vigilance, but I can build the wall again. I just need to work at it, and so will you. No one need find out.” When the hunger to use his power came on him, he walked and rode and exhausted himself with work, staying out of my way until he could suppress it.
I wanted to refuse any invitation into society, but Karon reminded me of what I already knew. Such blatant change in one’s habits would draw unwanted attention. We had no reason to think any suspicion should be directed Karon’s way. But he would never have burned the work on the journal if he were not concerned. I wondered if perhaps we should consider leaving Montevial. Going away… somewhere.
Midwinter brought the usual round of Seille entertainments. In lengthy and elaborate temple services held to appease and flatter holy Jerrat, whose storms had so tested our troops, priests had reminded us of the first Long Night, when Arot lay sorely wounded. The gifts of music and food and human companionship had raised the god from his winter of despair and prepared him to resume his battle with the beasts of chaos at the coming of the new year. Thus, Evard commanded his courtiers to celebrate lavishly, reassuring the common folk that the Leiran spirit was not darkened by the unnatural deviltry of our enemies. And so, at night after night of entertainments, noblewomen dressed in elaborate finery and laughed in shrill gaiety at jokes devoid of humor. Men played the buffoon, drank too much, and spoke too loudly of the glories of war.
A fortnight before Long Night, Karon and I were invited to a musical entertainment at the home of Sir Geoffrey Larreo, the administrator who had engaged Karon to develop the antiquities collection. I saw no way to avoid the occasion. Evard was to make an appearance as a favor to Sir Geoffrey—or rather as flattery to Sir Geoffrey’s relatives—and anyone with a court posting would be expected to attend.
Sir Geoffrey was a distant cousin of the late King Gevron, but had no landed titles of his own. He was a kind man, a bachelor much given to birdwatching and other gentle pursuits. Evard ridiculed him publicly and would have ignored him altogether if Sir Geoffrey were not regarded so fondly by Gevron’s family.
“Would I had given Sir Geoffrey our regrets,” said Karon as he waited for me at the bottom of the stairs that night.
I’d had a new gown made for the season, not to follow the frivolous fashion of society, but to accommodate my changing shape—not too noticeable as yet except to me. The gown was dark green silk cut low at the neck, falling loosely to the floor from a high waist. The narrow wedge of underskirt in front showed a darker green brocade. My hair was caught in a loose braid that fell halfway down my back, and my only other adornment was the gold locket engraved with a rose.
“Am I too awkward to be seen in public already? You’ll want to avert your eyes in a few weeks more!”
He took my hand as I descended the last steps. “On the contrary. I’m only reluctant to share such loveliness with the rest of society.”
“I wonder if you’ll still say such charming things when we pass two years married this month, or will flattery run its course as quickly as the time has done?”
“There is only truth between us.” That, at least, was one good thing that had come from our argument. The killing at Threadinghall had burdened me more than I had been willing to admit.
“Not only truth,” I said, wrapping my arms about him. “Young Connor Martin Gervaise is rapidly taking up a most prominent position between us.”
Karon threw back his head and laughed. “I shall begrudge him every moment!”
“You know, my love, you look quite fine yourself,” I said, as Joubert announced the hired carriage, and Karon helped me with my cloak. He was dressed simply in a loose white shirt of the finest cambric, full-sleeved and buttoned high at the neck in the Vallorean fashion. No puffed satin breeches, fluted neck ruffs, or slashed brocade sleeves, as Evard’s courtiers wore, but simple, well-fitted black breeches and black velvet doublet, embroidered in silver. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, setting off his deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. I loved it that he remained adamantly clean-shaven, defying Evard’s fashion of close-trimmed beards and narrow mustaches.
Joubert opened the door, and Karon threw on his own cloak that buttoned high on one shoulder. “I care for nothing but that it please you, my lady.” After a gallant, sweeping bow, he kissed my hand and led me into the winter darkness.
Sir Geoffrey often had musical evenings at his town-house, inviting small groups of selected acquaintances to hear a singer, instrumentalist, or ensemble. He had a good ear, and it was a considerable benefit to an artist’s reputation to be invited to play for him. Music and theatrical performances were a new fashion in Leire—Martin joked that it was all his doing—and few people knew quite how to judge talent for themselves. On that night carriage after carriage emptied its elegant occupants at Sir Geoffrey’s front door.
“He must have invited half the court,” I said, dreading the heat and the crowd.
“Everyone’s heard the king is to be here.”
“I wonder if he’s come to make sure we’re all celebrating joyfully as he’s commanded.”