“Oh, for Maribor’s sake, Arista—it’s not like I’m ordering you to marry some old coot.”
“Oh—well! I am so pleased you are looking out for me,” she said. “Who is it, then? One of King Roswort’s nephews? Dearest Maribor, Alric! Why Dunmore? Rudolf would have been misery enough, but at least I could understand an alliance with Alburn. But Dunmore? That’s just cruel. Do you hate me that much? Am I that horrible that you must marry me to some no-account duke in a backwater kingdom? Even Father wouldn’t have done that to me—why—why are you laughing? Stop laughing, you insensitive little hobgoblin!”
“I’m not marrying you off, Arista,” Alric managed to get out.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not?”
“God, no! Is that what you thought? I wouldn’t do that. I’m familiar with the kind of people you know. I’d find myself floating down the Galewyr again.”
“What, then? Julian said you were deciding my fate in there.”
“I have—I’ve officially appointed you Ambassador of Melengar.”
She stood silent, staring at him for a long moment. Without turning her head, she shifted her eyes and grabbed her shoe from Hilfred. Leaning on his shoulder, she slipped it back on.
“But Bernice said Sauly brought a list of eligible suitors,” she said tentatively, cautiously.
“Oh yes, he did,” Alric said, and chuckled. “We all had a good laugh at that.”
“We?”
“Mauvin and Fanen are here.” He hooked his thumb at the door. “They’re going with you. Fanen plans to enter the contest the church is organizing up in Ervanon. You see, it was supposed to be this big surprise, but you ruined everything as usual.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quavering unexpectedly. She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. “Thank you.”
The front wheels of the carriage bounced in a hole, followed abruptly by the rear ones. Arista nearly struck her head on the roof and lost her concentration, which was frustrating, because she was certain she was on the verge of recalling the name of Dunmore’s Secretary of the Treasury. It started with a Bon, a Bonny, or a Bobo—no, it could not be Bobo, could it? It was something like that. All these names, all these titles, the third baron of Brodinia, the Earl of Nith—or was it the third baron of Nith and the Earl of Brodinia? Arista looked at the palm of her hand, wondering if she could write them there. If caught, it would be an embarrassment not just for herself, but for Alric, and all of Melengar as well. From now on, everything she did, every mistake, every stumble would not just hurt her, it would reflect poorly on her kingdom. She had to be perfect. The problem was she did not know how to be perfect. She wished her brother had given her more time to prepare.
Dunmore was a new kingdom, only seventy years old, an overgrown fief reclaimed from the wilderness by ambitious nobles with only passing pedigrees. It had none of the traditions or refinement found in the rest of Avryn, but it did have a plethora of mind-numbing titled offices. She was convinced King Roswort created them the way a self-conscious man might overdecorate a modest house. He certainly had more ministers than Alric, with titles twice as long and uniquely vague, such as the Assistant Secretary of the Second Royal Avenue Inspection Quorum. What does that even mean? And then there was the simply unfathomable, since Dunmore was landlocked, Grandmaster of the Fleet! Nevertheless, Julian had provided her with a list and she was doing her best to memorize it, along with a tally sheet of their imports, exports, trade agreements, military treaties, and even the name of the king’s dog. She laid her head back on the velvet upholstery and sighed.
“Something wrong, my dear?” Bishop Saldur inquired from his seat directly across from her, where he sat pressing his fingers together. He stared at her with unwavering eyes that took in more than her face. She would have considered his looks rude if he had been anyone else. Saldur—or Sauly, as she always called him—had taught her the art of blowing dandelions that had gone to seed when she was five. He had shown her how to play checkers and pretended not to notice when she climbed trees or rode her pony at a gallop. For commencement on her sixteenth birthday, Sauly had personally instructed her on the Tenets of the Faith of Nyphron. He was like a grandfather. He always stared at her. She had given up wondering why.