“All things must crumble,” a voice remarked, and Sorrow turned to see the red-haired Rhyllian man who’d been drinking Starwater with Rasmus and Eirlys at the welcome feast. “It’s natural. And good to remember it, sometimes. Harcel Argus.” He held out a hand. “Or Baron Argus, if you want to be formal. Which I don’t. I haven’t had the chance to introduce myself to you yet. You’re Sorrow Ventaxis, are you not?”
“I am,” Sorrow replied, taking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” He turned to Irris. “I don’t believe I saw you at either dinner – am I wrong? Or just a drunk?”
“No, I arrived this morning.” She smiled. “I’m Irris Day. I used to sit on the Jedenvat for the East Marches.”
“Of course. You must call me Harcel, Miss Day.”
“Then you must call me Irris,” she smiled, and Harcel raised her hand, as though to his lips.
Irris was having none of it, though, and gently but firmly twisted her wrist, forcing him to shake her hand instead.
The baron, to his credit, easily went along with it. He greeted Luvian then, and Sorrow decided to leave them to it, linking her arm through Irris’s.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s find somewhere good.”
“Actually, I’d better wait for my father,” Irris said apologetically. “He was a bit strange when he got back from visiting you and Mael. Was he all right when you saw him?”
She didn’t know what made her do it, but Sorrow nodded, and Irris shrugged.
“Maybe it was the travel. It was a horribly long way; he’s stuck at the mercy of helpers to get in and out of the carriages. I’ll come find you afterwards. Oh, and we should get ready for tonight together,” Irris promised, and Sorrow left her, hurrying to catch up with Luvian and Harcel, who were still talking.
Sorrow expected Harcel to go and sit with his own people. But he seemed quite happy to remain with her and Luvian. She saw Mael and Arta sitting on the right-hand side, and Fain Darcia and Lady Skae two rows behind them, so she turned the same way, sitting behind a man with skin a few shades darker than her own: the Duke of Meridea.
He turned the moment she was seated and offered a hand. “Miss Ventaxis, how nice to finally meet you.”
His Rhannish was flawless, and again she was ashamed of her own lacking language skills, even more so when Luvian smiled easily and said, “Dirnisha sula rallia meter. So good to meet you.”
He turned to Sorrow, smiling pointedly, and she repeated the phrase he’d said, much to the delight of the Duke of Meridea.
“Ah, you speak Merish,” he beamed.
“Sadly not,” Sorrow said. “I’m afraid I copied what my friend said. But I’m hoping to learn much more soon.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Luvian give a small, satisfied nod.
The woman beside the duke, her close-cropped hair not unlike Dain’s, and elaborate jadis earrings cuffing her ears, turned then, and Sorrow greeted her the same way, earning herself a large grin from the Merish woman.
“My consort, the Lady Iola,” the duke introduced his companion. “This is Miss Ventaxis.”
“Please, call me Sorrow.”
“Of course, Sorrow. I’m hopeful I’ll have the chance to talk more to you at the feast tonight,” she said, before turning back to her husband and lapsing into rapid Merish.
Relations between Rhannon and Meridea had been tense since Meridea’s refusal to side with their nearest neighbours during the Eternal War. Sorrow knew from her grandmother that Reuben had blasted them for it, and of course Harun had made no attempt to heal any wounds. But it seemed the duke and his consort had no interest in maintaining grudges, and Sorrow made a note to definitely seek them out that night.
Luvian excused himself, and Harcel followed him, leaving her alone, and Sorrow took the opportunity to examine the room. The walls were bare, patched with moss, and the flagstone floor was peppered with shoots and leaves, as though nature was trying to claim the building for its own. It was as sparse inside as out, set up with rows of wooden benches, creating a wide aisle between them. She found she recognized a lot of the faces already seated, nodding and smiling at those she made eye contact with. At the front was a small altar, bare of anything except a silver or pewter jug, and a large stone bowl. Mael turned around, pulling her gaze to his. They exchanged smiles, and Sorrow remembered the breakin. She’d have to make sure he was told, it was only fair. She was certain if their positions were reversed, he’d tell her.
She searched then for the Rhannish vice chancellor, spying him near the back in a space that had been cleared for his chair; Irris was beside him, talking to a tall man in the stark costume of the Astrians. Charon stared rigidly ahead, and Sorrow got the impression he was deliberately avoiding her gaze. She frowned, trying to catch his eye. He was scaring her a little.
Movement to her side made her turn, but instead of Luvian she found that Harcel, the red-headed Rhyllian, had hastily taken his spot.
“It’s about to begin,” he said, by way of explanation, and no sooner had he said it than Vespus, again with Aphora by his side, followed by Rasmus and Eirlys, swept down the aisle and took their seats at the front. Sorrow looked away as Rasmus passed, annoyed at how her skin flamed with embarrassment.
Then, at some signal Sorrow missed, everyone turned to the doors as Melisia and Caspar entered the room. Both wore white, and the babe in Melisia’s arms wore gold. They made their way slowly up the makeshift aisle to where a priestess of some kind had appeared, clad in a blue shift, beside the altar. Melisia handed the baby to the priestess, who began to speak in rapid Rhyllian. Sorrow didn’t even try to follow the words, instead focusing on the feeling and the beauty of the ceremony.
She was surprised when envy gripped her as she saw how carefully they all handled the child; as though she was the most precious thing in the world. She wondered if her mother would have held her so tenderly if she’d survived. Perhaps she might have grown to love her daughter once the pain of childbirth faded, regretted naming her Sorrow.
The priestess anointed the child with clear water from the bowl, and then spoke one final time, before saying, “Aralie.”
Almost everyone in the room replied, “Arventis, Aralie.”
“Welcome, Aralie,” Harcel leant over and translated.
Sorrow didn’t tell him it was one of the few Rhyllian words she knew. “Beautiful name,” she murmured instead.
“It is. In Rhannish it would mean something like ‘she who flies the highest and sings the sweetest’.”
“Like a kind of bird?”
“Perhaps.” The red-haired baron shrugged.
They all rose as Melisia and Caspar returned down the aisle with their newly named daughter, followed by Eirlys, Vespus, Aphora and Rasmus. Sorrow kept her eyes fixed on the tiny hand waving from the blankets in Melisia’s arms, turning back to Harcel when Rasmus drew level with them.
“What happens now?” Sorrow asked the baron.
“Now baby Aralie will receive her blessings from those Her Majesty and the prince consort have chosen to bless her.”