Guy Kay - A Song for Arbonne

The horror of the tidings from Aubry had drawn her back, in a single dark leap of memory, to that garden in Tavernel last summer, when she had listened from a place of hiding on the wall and learned who the bearded northern coran was, and heard him speak with Rudel Correze of war coming with Gorhaut. Now everyone knew who he was, since this morning, and war was no longer coming, it was upon them. And the coran she had impulsively followed that Midsummer night had claimed Gorhaut's crown today.

On that thought she almost did turn back, but she had reached a place where the wall torches lit the corridor, and she realized that the guards outside his door were watching her. One of them she knew, a coran from Vezét, from a farm not far from her father's. She wasn't sure whether she was happy about that or not.

Having been seen, though, and almost certainly recognized, she was not about to turn and skulk away. Grateful that she looked presentable, at least, in her newest tunic bought for the fair and the vest Ariane had given her, and aware that if the guards knew her they would almost certainly also know she'd been among the selected performers tonight, Lisseut walked forward with her head high.

"Hello, Fabrise," she said to the man she knew. "I didn't realize you were in Barbentain. Is your father well?"

He grimaced briefly in response. "He is, I thank you. Will you tell us what you are doing here?" Formal, extremely formal. No warmth at all. They had clearly been instructed that guard duty tonight outside this door was not ceremonial. After Blaise's declaration this morning it stood to reason, and after the attack on Aubry tonight every coran in Arbonne would be on edge. Again, Lisseut wondered why she had never listened to her mother more attentively.

She said hardily, "I thought if Blaise de Garsenc was awake he might be willing to speak with me." There was no reply at all to that. "We are friends," she added—it was almost true, in a manner of speaking—"and I wanted to see how he was. Is he sleeping?"

For a long moment four grim corans regarded her in silence. Finally one of them, evidently concluding that whatever she was, it was something other than an immediate danger, made a wry face. "What is it," he said, addressing Fabrise, "about your women from Vezét, will you tell me?"

Fabrise frowned. Lisseut felt herself flushing. This was pretty much what she'd feared would happen. Oh, mother, she thought. It had actually occurred to her several times during the day that it might be a good time for a visit home. She could sleep in her old bed, see people she'd grown up with, talk with her mother while they did the endless needlework in the doorway, or with her father, walking among the olive groves. It might be a good thing to do, she'd thought. It had been a long time since she'd been back, and home sometimes was a place where the heart could be eased.

"I know this woman. She is not like that," said Fabrise of Vezét; her pulse quickened at his loyalty.

"Nor is this a night," she said, emboldened, unwilling as ever to have someone else fight a battle for her, even a small one, "when a man of Arbonne should speak any ill of the women of his country. I will accept an apology, coran, if you offer one."

There was a great deal to be said for the training that regular appearances in public gave one. She was easily able to outface the coran who had made that jest. He lowered his head and mumbled words that did sound contrite. He looked young, Lisseut thought. He had probably meant no real offense, though he did have a great deal to learn.

On the other hand, what innocuous reason could she offer for being here? Truth was, the young coran was right, if not about the women of Vezét, then rather definitely about this particular one. We are friends, she had said. If a friendship could be built on a night's clandestine spying like an audrade on a garden wall followed by a rejected invitation to share her Midsummer bed. He had smiled at her two nights ago here in Barbentain. Did that count? She had even thought he was about to come over to her, before Rudel Correze had appeared at his elbow and the two men had walked away.

That had been before this morning's challenge, though: before everything had changed. These corans in the hallway were, she made herself repeat it again in her mind, the guards appointed for a man who had claimed a throne.

She bit her lip. Began her retreat. "It is late, I know… " she murmured.

"He is awake," Fabrise said, "but not in his room. He went to see his sister. His brother's wife, I mean. The one who gave birth last week. I think he wanted to be the one to tell her the news."

"Her husband was there," the coran she'd reprimanded now confided, as if anxious to make amends. "At Aubry, I mean. And also her—" He stopped with a grunt as one of the others sank an elbow in his ribs.

The four men looked quickly down the corridor, and so Lisseut turned with them—to see Blaise de Garsenc approaching from the shadows.

"And also her brother," Blaise said, finishing the sentence. He was walking quite slowly, limping a little; he looked pale beneath the beard and there were smudged circles of fatigue under his eyes. He came up to them and stopped, looking at the four men, not at her. "There is going to be gossip, of course, but we might appropriately leave it to others, don't you think?"

It was mildly said, but the young coran went crimson to the roots of his hair. Lisseut actually felt sorry for him. Then she forgot about the man entirely as she met Blaise's scrutiny.

"Hello, Lisseut," he said. She hadn't been positive he would remember her name. He seemed unsurprised to find her in the hallway outside his room.

She took a breath and said, straining for a normal tone, "I'm not sure, do I curtsey?"

"I'm not sure either," he said calmly. "Why don't we omit it for now? I thought I heard your voice earlier. The song from Midsummer, the woman singing in the garden?"

"I didn't think you had listened so carefully back then," she said.

"I didn't either," he murmured. "Evidently some of it stayed with me. Will you come in?" He opened the door to his room and stepped aside for her to enter.

Feeling suddenly shy, Lisseut walked in. He followed, closing the door behind them. There were candles on chests beside and at the foot of the bed and on the two tables in the room. They were guttering low, though, and others had gone out. He busied himself for a moment lighting new ones.

"There is wine by the far wall," he said over his shoulder. "Pour us each a cup, if you will." Glad of something to do, she moved to the sideboard and did so. A faint scent of perfume lingered in the air. She thought that if she tried she would recognize it; she didn't try. She carried the cups back and stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. The bed, she noticed, was rumpled, the covers in disarray. He seemed to notice this at about the same time, moving over to smooth them as best he could.

"Forgive me," he said. "This room is in no condition to receive a lady."

He was being astonishingly kind, she thought. Kindness wasn't what she needed, though. She said, "Even the sort of lady who spies on you at night?"

He grinned, though his fatigue was still evident. He came over and took his wine, motioning her to one of the chairs by the window. He sank into the other, with a half-suppressed sigh of relief.

"You are in pain," Lisseut said quickly. "I have no right to keep you awake."

"You won't be able to for very long," he said, somewhat ruefully. "Much as I'd like to talk, they gave me some herbal thing earlier and I'm still sleepy with it. They wanted me to have more but I said no."

"You probably should have taken it," she said.

He grinned mockingly. She remembered that quickness from Midsummer. It had been one of the things she hadn't expected from a coran of Gorhaut. "I wouldn't have taken you for so obedient a woman. Do you always do what you're told?" he asked.