“Really? Well, I suppose I should see it then,” said Catherine, forcing herself to smile. “I should very much like to know how it ends!”
Seats were quickly set up in the garden and the play began. There were no words, only dancing. One actor, a young boy dressed in a dazzling white gown, was accompanied by three other boys dressed in red and black and green. Opposite them stood two men, one older in purple, one younger in blue, clearly meant to be King Arell and Prince Tzsayn. The two men danced, the younger one copying the older one, but eventually doing everything with a higher leap or more turns, until finally the lady in white leaped in the air with joy, to be caught by the prince and lie in his arms in a faint.
Boris sneered. “Only Pitorians would expect a woman to be overcome by dancing.”
“Whereas Brigantines just expect a woman to be overcome,” Catherine replied sharply.
Sir Rowland applauded. “In Brigant, men joust to prove their worth. In Pitoria, they dance. Both pastimes are skillful and athletic and, alas”—he leaned to Catherine—“both favor the younger man.”
“Dancing proves nothing manly in my eyes,” growled Boris. And he left them.
“But if you could, Sir Rowland, which would you choose? Having lived away from Brigant so long, do you only dance?”
“Well, I was never much of a fighter.”
“Or only with words.”
“You can’t fight with words alone, Your Highness. Words without actions are like dancing—pretty but ineffectual.”
“But both my words and actions have irritated Boris, and you are assisting me rather than holding me back. I think once I am married, you may be recalled to Brigant.”
Sir Rowland nodded. “I had surmised as much. I’m wise enough to know that my use must always outweigh my cost. I’ve worked hard for Brigant all these years, but I’m under no illusions—the future is never certain when working for your father. But I do feel that we—if I may say “we’—have achieved something in just these few days, Your Highness, and the attitude of the Pitorian people toward Brigant is more positive.”
Catherine had never imagined working, but now she felt like she had a role. In Brigant she was just a princess who did nothing, who was required to do nothing. The thought of going back to such an existence was depressing. She loved making plans and carrying them out, but much of the fun was doing it with someone else. “You’ve helped me so much, Sir Rowland. Both in what I’ve achieved and in taking my mind off other troubles.”
“You’ve left most of your troubles behind, I hope, Your Highness.”
Clearly Sir Rowland thought she meant her family, though she was thinking of Ambrose.
“Alas, not all of them. But you are helping me recover. And, if my father does recall you, please don’t go. I would welcome you as my permanent adviser.”
Sir Rowland bowed, and Catherine thought his eyes seemed moist. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
The conversation had reminded Catherine not only of Ambrose, but that she had thought little of the “message” that Lady Anne had tried to communicate to her. She felt that she’d been too absorbed in her dresses and procession, and was suddenly ashamed. In her last moments of life Lady Anne had been trying to communicate with Catherine, so she, Catherine, had a duty to do her best to understand that message. She asked Sir Rowland, “What can you tell me of demon smoke?”
Sir Rowland looked surprised. “Well, it’s an expensive way to bring some relaxation. And an illegal way.” He leaned toward Catherine, saying, “No one will admit to using it, but I’m sure half the court have tried it at least once.”
Catherine hesitated, then said, “I need to confide in you, Sir Rowland.” And she told him about Lady Anne’s execution.When she had finished, she asked, “Have you any idea why Lady Anne would be warning me about demon smoke?”
Sir Rowland shook his head. “I wish I could help. But as far as I know, the smoke is no more than a pleasure drug. It sounds like she was implying your father had it.”
“He does have it. I know he’s bought at least two hundred pounds’ worth of it. But he would never use it himself.”
“No. I can’t imagine your father seeking pleasure that way.”
“But Lady Anne made the signs on the scaffold. She was in pain, about to die. She wouldn’t use that moment to tell me something trivial. The smoke must be important.”
“Let me make some inquiries.” Sir Rowland paused before saying, “While we’re discussing your father, I hope you take no offense when I say that he will use all ways and means to achieve his chief aim.”
“That being the retaking of Calidor?”
“Precisely. And . . . your marriage is a way for him to ensure Pitoria doesn’t aid Calidor in any future war.”
“And increase his trading revenues to fight that war,” Catherine added.
Sir Rowland smiled. “I see you are fully aware of the situation. But the demon smoke seems to add another dimension. As I said, let me make some inquiries.”
* * *
The final journey to the outskirts of Tornia was especially slow. The procession had grown so large that the trumpeters at the front were out of sight for Catherine, though she could hear them clearly enough. Ahead of them were the actors and musicians, who drew the crowds but who were not part of the official parade. Next came a guard from Pitoria of twenty men on black horses. Each man carried a long spear and wore a breastplate and cloak but no helmet so that everyone could see their short purple hair, the king’s color.
Catherine rode her white mare, with a sprig of wissun pinned to her dazzling new white dress. She had been told it would be hard to have her new gowns made in time, but Catherine had found that if she spent Boris’s money liberally enough most difficulties could be overcome. This dress had even more crystals than her previous one, and was high-throated and slashed to reveal hints of glittering silver and gold cloth beneath. There was no doubt as to who was the star of the procession.
Tanya, Jane, and Sarah came next, also in new, more elaborate dresses, and behind them were Boris and his fifty guards. And while the men didn’t have colored hair, their shining metal helmets had red plumes that matched the grandeur of the occasion.
Behind them, at a much farther distance, were the caravans and horses of the numerous servants and camp followers who had attached themselves to the procession since Charron. It was almost a traveling village. Some of them had adopted white hair despite not having any official role to play, merely wanting to identify themselves as part of the princess’s entourage.
Ahead, the greenish of meadows gave way to browns of timber-framed buildings cloaking the gentle hillside. And at the summit of the hill, above the houses and the gray stone wall of Tornia, was Zalyan Castle with its five famous turrets, each almost impossibly tall and elegant, surrounding the central pentagonal tower that seemed to shine like a beacon in the sunlight.
Even to Catherine, raised a princess of a powerful kingdom, it was a breathtaking sight, and she felt a mix of admiration and apprehension sweep over her.
As the procession approached, even the road seemed to smarten itself up, becoming straighter, wider, and pale gray like the color of the castle beyond. A bridge spanning the River Char was also of gray stone and strong, with three wide arches and a low wall along each side. People were standing here, cheering and shouting greetings of welcome. Hundreds of people—thousands!