CHAPTER 6

FIRST Harvest drew near. Festivities were planned through- out the country for the high summer festival celebrating the early crops’ bounty, but in Chênier the biggest event was the King’s Feast. The castle hall would be especially crowded this year. Jerome had “invited” the territorial regents and garrison commanders, taking advantage of the opportunity to hold a full tactical meeting without causing undue alarm.

Gabrielle and Solange had been working with the household staff for days to prepare for FirstHarvest Feast. Feeding well over a hundred people lavishly was no simple task, especially in high summer when food spoiled quickly in the heat. Whatever could be done ahead of time was, but when the day arrived, the cooks would still have to start before dawn.

Now it was late afternoon, and Gabrielle was dressing in her chamber. From a young age she had been trained to be a gracious host, sitting at high table with her parents at all the feasts and festivals that marked the cycle of their life, and despite her natural shyness she enjoyed these duties. In the small kingdoms of the Krylian Basin, the royal families were not distant, awesome figures but practical leaders. Their participation in festivals and other public events was expected, not that they hid themselves away at other times. Even Gabrielle’s work as a healer, though it stretched the boundaries of custom, was not considered unseemly. Kings and queens were meant to care for their people. Gabrielle’s gift was Verdeau’s good fortune, and only strengthened the people’s loyalty to the Crown. But medical emergencies aside, she was still a royal daughter, with all the demands and formalities that entailed. Tonight Féolan and Danaïs would be their guests, and Gabrielle was looking forward to that too.

She dressed with care, aware that she wanted to look attractive. Standing in front of the glass, she eyed herself critically. The simple dark green dress she had chosen set off her chestnut hair and fitted her willowy figure perfectly. She wondered now, though, if it was too plain, and whether she should have chosen a more elaborate hairstyle. She had had her maid braid the sides and fasten them with a jeweled clasp at the back but allowed the rest to fall in natural waves down her back.

She sighed. It was unlike her to fret over her appearance. Who are you trying to impress? she asked herself peevishly.

Like it’s not obvious, a sly voice whispered in her mind. A teasing girlfriend’s voice it was, and just as relentless. Like you haven’t noticed him.

Gabrielle gazed at herself, startled. Was she attracted to Féolan? She had to laugh at her own huffy mental protests: I enjoy his company, that’s all. I’m interested in his abilities.

Oh yes, his abilities, mocked the girlfriend’s voice. And his eyes. And his smile. And that feeling you get when he talks to you alone. And ...

Enough. At twenty-seven, she was well past the usual age of marriage, resigned to a single life. It had been years now since she had considered any man as a potential mate.

Strange how that had happened. She had certainly had suitors once she came of age at seventeen; she was, after all, the daughter of a king, and no one had ever called her ugly. Her days had been dominated by her training with Marcus, but still she had gone with the hopeful young men for walks and horseback rides, chatted through dinners and teas and games of four-spot or chiggers. There had been visits to her father’s people on Crow Island and to her mother’s people in the interior and even to the neighboring kingdoms of Gamier and Barilles. At twenty she became a qualified bonemender with no serious prospects of marriage, though everyone was careful to add “yet.” By the time she turned twenty-two, the suitors had stopped calling.

It was her own fault, if fault could be laid for such a thing. She just hadn’t been interested, not in any of them. She had let the ones she liked best kiss her, hoping to feel the stirring of desire the troubadours sang about. But she hadn’t. One by one, the young men, and a couple of older ones, had drifted away, puzzled and discouraged. There had been only one marriage proposal, from a widowed Barilles nobleman, and though he tried to hide it she knew he had been relieved by her polite refusal. There was something in Gabrielle too, despite her gentle manner, that men found forbidding.

She had been surprised, and grateful, that her parents had not pushed her to marry, though Solange had given at least one speech about how married couples “grow into love.” They might have been less accepting, Gabrielle thought wryly, if her older brother, Dominic, had not already produced an heir.

Since there were no men Gabrielle wanted, it had been easy enough to give up on marriage. Much, much harder was giving up the hope of children. Running like a secret rising tide of panic through her youth had been the growing fear that she was barren. As it turned out, the problem was nothing more than a dramatically late puberty. But who would ever have believed it could be so late? On the night of her eighteenth birthday Gabrielle had wept until dawn, sure that if she had not started her moon cycles by now she never would. She carried the sorrow alone, unable to bring herself to confide even in Solange. Almost a year later, her cycles had started. Not that they had been much use, after all.

And now here she was, trying on jewelry and worrying about her hair. Wanting, why not admit it, Féolan to find her pretty.

She couldn’t decide if she liked the feeling or not. It doesn’t matter anyway, she chided herself. It’s just a dinner, and he’ll be gone in a few days. Fastening the silver clasp at her waist, she strode out of the room.

FÉOLAN AND DANAÏS HAD also dressed with care, if less indecision. Their choice was simple: the travelworn clothes they had been living in for weeks, or the one good outfit each had stuffed at the bottom of his pack. As guests at an occasion of some importance, they knew they should look the part. With the help of a young maid, who had steamed the wrinkles out of tunics and cloaks, they were presentable enough.

Féolan knocked on Danaïs’ door. “Ready to go?”

“In a minute,” came the muffled reply. “I just have to get this miserable boot on.”

Féolan knew better than to offer his help. Just last night, Danaïs had been declared no longer a patient and moved into a proper guest room. Féolan suspected Gabrielle had done it to enforce a new exercise regime: now Danaïs would have to labor up and down the curving oak stairway several times a day. Danaïs, however, had been extremely pleased, and with his private quarters had come a determined return to independence.

Soon Danaïs emerged, and Féolan did help him with the stairs. They walked down the corridor, opened the double doors to the Great Hall and entered a scene of genial pandemonium. The massive room had been transformed; rows of tables and benches filled the formerly empty space while a dozen overhead chandeliers flickered with candlelight and reflected off the glass goblets set at each table.

Nobody was seated, though most of the guests had arrived. The Great Hall was congested with people, clumped along the edges of the room or threading their way between tables to shake hands and slap backs. The hubbub of conversation was punctuated with frequent shrills of laughter; Féolan thought it likely that a good number of the guests had kicked off the feast, at least the drinking part of it, before leaving their homes. He caught site of Tristan’s blond hair by the far entrance; Tristan appeared to know everybody there and was making a brave attempt at greeting them all. Féolan scanned the room and picked out Jerome and Solange in another corner, smiling and welcoming the guests. There was method underlying this apparent madness, then. And—

Féolan’s breath caught in his throat as he found Gabrielle’s slender form. The candlelight flickered over her dark hair, making it flash red and gold when she turned her head. Her eyes looked deeply green, nearly as dark as her dress. Gabrielle was on duty too, her style quieter than Tristan’s but just as effective as she gave each person in turn her warm attention. She was talking now to a couple with a babe in arms, exclaiming over the child, laughing as it reached for her silver earring.

Féolan stood quietly, watching the scene. He wasn’t at all sure Danaïs should risk making his way into that jostling crowd. A sudden horn fanfare saved him the worry as people headed for the tables.

“Féolan! Danaïs! Over here!” Tristan appeared before them and pointed toward a dais at the near end of the room, where a white-draped, richly set table was flanked with banks of flowers. “Come, you’ll sit up top with us.” Tris looked them up and down, gave a slow whistle. “Ver-ry nice. Very dashing. You’ll have the seamstresses going crazy, every young nobleman demanding an Elvish cloak and brow-gem.”

Jerome and Solange were already at table, standing at their places. Beside Jerome stood a dark-haired man, a woman and two children. “My older brother, Dominic, and his family,” explained Tristan. “He is regent of Crow Island and the Blanch-ette coast.”

Gabrielle soon joined them. Her eyes widened as she took in the Elves’ finery.

“My Lord Danaïs, my Lord Féolan,” she murmured, dropping them an elegant curtsy.

Féolan returned his best Human bow, then placed his hand over his heart. “Among my people we do thus, then touch palms,” he explained, and smiling up at him, she followed suit.

Tristan and Gabrielle took their places beside Solange, and Féolan and Danaïs were seated on their left. That left one empty place on their side of the table, and this was soon taken by an older woman introduced as the Regent of Inner Verdeau.

“My aunt Marisse,” Gabrielle muttered in his ear.

Further introductions were abandoned as the king stepped to the front of the dais. The room quieted. Jerome’s speech was brief but masterfully delivered: a warm welcome, a vote of appreciation to the laborers and landowners responsible for the harvest, a prayer for continued good bounty and the promise of after-dinner entertainment. As he settled himself at the table, servants began bringing in food, and the guests cut short their applause in a hasty dive for their seats.

Dinner passed in a blur of rich food, flowing ale and increasingly loud talk. Marisse proved as gracious as her sister, Solange, and accepted the Elves with matter-of-fact warmth, a welcome change from the incredulity they had become used to. “How wonderful to meet you,” she had exclaimed. “In the interior, you know, we still speak of a time when Elves and Humans were allies. Perhaps those days will come again.”

“Perhaps they will,” Féolan replied, privately picturing the disaster that might force just such an alliance.

A ripple of amusement from Danaïs and Gabrielle chased away this unpleasant train of thought, amusement at Tristan’s expense, it turned out. Tristan had been restlessly scanning the crowded room since the meal had started. Now he had evidently found what he was searching for. He had aimed that charming grin of his right across the Great Hall, and it was all but giving off sparks. That smile’s for a woman, Féolan thought, and a second later Tristan proved him right by blowing a kiss out into the air.

Gabrielle shot him a quick elbow in the ribs. “Tris, behave.”

“What?!” protested Tristan, all indignity and wounded innocence. “What’d I do?”

Danaïs’ carefully neutral expression crumpled into a chuckle. “You nearly set my ear on fire with that kiss. I felt my skin sizzle as it flew past me!” he said. Their laughter was lost in the clatter of dishes that announced the arrival of the next course.

“Poor Rosalie,” sighed Gabrielle, still giggling. “If she only knew what she was getting into with—” An unladylike squawk startled their end of the table; Tristan had reached behind and yanked her hair. Gabrielle looked at the guests apologetically, her eyes merry. “I am sorry. You know even now, my brother and I still can’t be trusted to sit together.”

AS THE LAST PLATES were cleared away, the room turned expectantly toward the empty end of the dais where the musicians would play. Applause swelled through the audience as the five musicians trooped onstage.

They knew how to please a large crowd, playing and singing with gusto and sticking to the rollicking shanties and drinking songs that could be enjoyed without really listening. Féolan found Human music rather crude, but he had come to appreciate its energy and momentum, and he enjoyed the concert. He had even learned a few of the songs in his travels and impressed Tristan hugely by joining in on the sing-along choruses. Gabrielle sang along too, her voice a clear contralto.

After about an hour, Jerome stepped forward and deftly ended the party. Everyone stood, as well as they could manage, for the Verdeau anthem, and then the entire head table was ushered out of the room, followed by the musicians.

“No more wine, no more music. They’ll all clear out soon enough,” Jerome assured his wife. He turned to his assembled guests. “Good night, everyone. Those of you who are here for business as well as pleasure, we meet at nine bells in the Council Chamber.”

Most people headed for the stairs, but Tristan held the two Elves back. “The musicians will play a little more for us in the salon. Would you like to come?”

Of course they would. Tristan disappeared for a moment and returned with Rosalie in tow, a short, dark-haired young woman with huge brown eyes. Dominic stayed as well: “Mother made me come as a chaperone, to make sure Tristan doesn’t disgrace himself!”

GABRIELLE HAD PLACED herself behind Danaïs, Féolan noticed. She was watching her patient walk. He dropped back himself and tried to observe Danaïs with a healer’s eyes. There was a stiffness to his gait but no obvious limp, which seemed pretty good for such a recent injury and after a long day. Féolan glanced at Gabrielle, who nodded—it was pretty good.

Gabrielle gave the musicians a warm welcome; Tristan, for his part, wasted no time in pouring them a round of wine. Then he threw himself on a settee and pulled Rosalie down beside him. When the others were settled, the musicians began an instrumental piece that was unlike anything Féolan had yet heard at the taverns and inns where he had stayed. It began quietly, just the whistle and mandola delicately intertwined. Gradually the other instruments joined in, trading melody and countermelody in a complex weaving until finally all five came together in a single, stirring voice. Féolan realized that he had far underestimated the troupe’s skill.

Gabrielle, he could tell, found a sweet, simple happiness in the music. Her shining eyes were glued to the troupe as they played on, an old ballad about a sea battle, then a pretty country love song. Then the leader motioned to Tristan. “Lord Tristan, come up and sing with your sister. Does your famous duet have anything new for us?”

Tristan stepped forward, motioning to Gabrielle. “Nothing new, this time. We’ve been unaccountably busy, I’m afraid. But we’ll gladly subject you to the same old thing, won’t we Gabi?”

Gabrielle hesitated, but when Dominic pleaded, “Come on, Gabrielle, I haven’t heard you sing in so long,” she gave a quick nod and stood up. Glancing at Féolan, she colored a little, and he realized with chagrin that she would feel freer without him there.

It didn’t matter. Once she began, all embarrassment seemed to drop away. She and Tristan sang “Tables Turned,” a rollicking off-color song about a husband who has been untrue during his long travels. Trading verses full of lame excuses and double entendres, Gabrielle and Tristan sang it with exaggerated broad humor. Rosalie, who had never heard it before, collapsed in laughter at Gabrielle’s “last word”:

I’ve ridden up, I’ve ridden down

Deep vale and highest hill

I’ve ridden farther even than thee

So travel where you will.

WITH A SWEEPING BOW, Tristan returned to his seat, but the harpist said, “Stay, Lady Gabrielle, and sing something pretty. Sing that shipwreck song.”

Féolan expected some brave account of a lost crew. What he heard, instead, was a woman’s lament for her love, drowned at sea and washed up on a foreign shore among strangers. The melody was simple and lovely, the lyrics poignant with understated grief:

Pity the hearts

The wild waves part ...

For my love is far, far away.

But it was Gabrielle’s voice that made the hairs on his neck stand on end: lower than an Elvish voice, it had nearly the same liquid clarity, with a rich emotional resonance he had not heard among his own people. Never melodramatic, Gabrielle’s singing nonetheless evoked fear and loneliness, love and courage. Féolan thought he could listen to her forever.

As Gabrielle stepped down, someone asked the Elves for a song. They stopped at one, knowing that most people have a limited appetite for lyrics in a foreign tongue. Not much later, Dominic rose. “I’m charged with keeping Tristan and myself clearheaded for tomorrow’s meetings,” he said. “I think we’d better call it a night.”

Working their way up the stairs—Danaïs’ leg was complaining now, and they fell behind the others—the two Elves marveled once again at Gabrielle’s mysterious talents. “We have misjudged them, the Humans, based only on the few we have met,” suggested Féolan. “I did not think to find a healer’s hands among them, nor for that matter such fine musicianship. I did not expect them to vary so, one from another.”

“Aye, perhaps,” said Danaïs. “But you could meet the whole city, I warrant, and that maid would still stand out like the brightest star in the sky.”

Féolan nodded his agreement, but he did not go on to confess the fear that kept him awake until dawn: that against all wisdom, he had fallen in love with a Human.