( she'd been surprised, to say the least, when it had been brought up during one evening meal moments after the staff had cleared out and left them alone. traveling โ together. leaving the secluded residence so he could return to acacia. while feyre suspected that he still didn't fully trust her, and she couldn't blame him, she also had a feeling that he didn't want to leave her completely on her own. not that she'd be alone, that older woman who'd been assigned to her since her arrival would keep close, though feyre couldn't be too sure on how close once the royal presence was out of the picture.
and so here she was, left to her own devices while his royal majesty was off doing whatever he needed to tend to now that he was back home.
for a better part of her stay since they'd arrival by carriage late in the evening, she'd wandered the halls the same as she done in the spring court whenever tamlin would leave her to patrol his borders with lucien. familiarized herself with as much as she could as neither she nor constantin knew of when she might be able to return to her own world โ if she could. the decor and splendor of it was what she admired the most, poking her head into any room she came upon; there was no way she would be able to see all of the 1,500 rooms the palace housed.
by the end of the week, feyre grew restless while being a busybody. it was a feeling she detested more than anything else. restlessness and the unknown. she'd tried not to grimace whenever her personal assigned maids would bother her in the mornings to help her dress and do her hair; she was quickly becoming to loathe the high-collared dresses, the fussing, the braids and curls. oh how she longed for pants and was in half a mind to make the one and only demand of constantin: clear her wardrobe of the dresses, put pants and leathers in their place.
she wondered how scandalized her maids would be should she walk out of her chambers in the illyrian leathers she'd worn upon arriving in this world, the leathers and her weapons and the heavy hooded cloak all that she'd had on her when the king had crossed her (unconscious) path.
ignoring the hushed whispers as she passed (whispers only so bold when she was alone), the heavy skirts of dark gray rustling with her steps down the wide hall that would lead her out into the back gardens she'd spotted out among the sprawling and well cared for lands. it took a matter of moments for her to reach the tall hedges, not daring a look back in case someone followed her before she stepped one foot forward and let her curiosity take her.
a half hour later and she found herself in what appeared to be a dead end, a more secluded section complete with a small fountain and seating. birdsong, trickling water โ peaceful. she let out a soft sigh, shoulders dropping. solitude. no whispering servants, no guards side eying her as she passed by or their gazes following her every step, no upturned noses (how dare this unknown young woman with zero status take up residence in the king's palace).
a slow breath released as she sat on the edge of the fountain, shifting until she was comfortable with all the layers. sitting in absolute silence, her eyes closed, face turning up to the breeze, taking the moment to listen, to hear its whisper. the corners of her lips turn down in a faint frown. nothing. no words whispered sweetly into her ears, no gentle caresses. was this world truly so different? a pang squeezed in her chest and she had to lift a hand to press over it as she continued to frown to herself.
how she longed to leave, to return to her world. but how? where to start? she could never be disrespectful to the king who'd helped her when he could have simply carried on and left her in the ditch.
feyre leaned over, hand lowering to the cold water. fingers trailed through it, swirled, and, a knit in her brow forming, thin tendrils rose up. moved together, intertwined. the actions, though appearing easy, straightforward, brought out a heaviness pressing in against her breast that she ignored in favour of continuing with her attempting to access her magic. it was a pressure that she assumed was due to the corset strings drawn in too tight, nothing more. )
[ In a surprising display of putting their pieces in unexpected squares on the board, Enger isnโt sent to Acacia as she might have expected. Rather, her Majesty sends the request—writ by her foreign affairs secretary, of course—that Princess Enger Khanal Iskander is to winter as a guest of the Governor of Merdorรฉe.
(โI can write my own communiques,โ she had commented to her father over dinner. She only let her brow furrow in private.
โA piece of bait doesnโt unlatch her own cage,โ he remarked.
โI think of it more as... planting a garden,โ Enger said. โPerhaps the queen has decided the north could use more bistort.โ
In reply, he only smiled at her and pointed out that she had eaten her whole meal in under three minutes with only her fork; all while her dominant hand wrapped so tightly around her knife the blunt edge of the utensil left a crease in her palm. The message was clear: Enger wasnโt willowy bistort, she was a stinging nettle or a barberry shrub.)
It takes little time to get her trunk packed and her papers in order, although Enger turns down the offer of a palanquin to the coast in favour of a horse and a discreet guard wearing the porterโs unassuming costume. No one expects her to travel unescorted, of course; even if Iskander wasnโt pushing further south with impunity and greed, a commodity needs must accept its cage. Tsera is assigned in lieu of a contingent of guards; standing a head shorter than the princess, only a very keen eye could spot the knives and poison-tinged blow darts strapped to her person.
The trip across the ocean is dull, except when it isnโt. As autumn tips into the beginning of winter, Enger wraps herself in borrowed furs and watches the whales on the horizon. Tsera hovers, mulish about the mouth, at her elbow without respite. They only encounter one storm, the lightning spectacular against the furious, violet sky.
The ocean becomes land. Land becomes a port. The port becomes a smattering of villages and then a city. The breadbasket, they call it. Noise filters in like the angry, orchestrated cry of a barrel of gulls; the sentences of Ornefluerโs people have no spaces between words for Enger to get a foothold. Her lessons in the language had not accounted for the volley of accents across the region. When she can get away with it, she smiles wordlessly and defers the conversation. Sheโs always been told she has a lovely smile. Half the time, it works.
In the governorโs manse, sheโs given the largest guest suiteโa parlour with a side alcove as an office space, a bedchamber boasting magnificent double doors, an ensuite bath. (Tsera disappears sullenly down the hall into a smaller room. Enger lets her go, keeping a knife under her pillow as she has for the past five years.)
For a few weeks, Enger gets her bearings. She adjusts her body to the new demands of the sunโs rise and set. She borrows books from the libraries to practice her reading and writing. She entertains, often at the drop of a hat; the governorโs spouse and children, lords and ladies with financial considerations in the breadbasket; one surprisingly long conversation with a retired general fascinated by Iskanderโs policy of mandatory military service (โbut youโre a princess!โ he had blustered, mustache quivering with such force she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing); and whoever else wishes to speak with her.
After the past few years, Enger finds herself grateful for the quiet grace of tediumโeven if she continues to freeze at every popped cork and every chair leg screeching across the floor.
Sheโs frequently awake before the sun and around the same time as the house staff, nursing tea as they bustle for breakfast. One day, the bustle outs with more chaos than usual, bodies hurrying up and down. When the governor rushes out of their rooms without even stopping to say hello, Enger watches with bewilderment and gently gets a maidโs attention. ]
Has something happened?
[ The maid pauses, clutching a small basket of eggs. ]
The king has been spotted inโ [ Exactly where the king was supposedly spotted is a word Enger doesnโt recognise, but she nods like she understands.
Just in case, she goes back to her suite and pulls one of her finest dresses out from the bottom of her trunk.
It is, of course, terribly wrinkled. Jane Austen's byronic hero, Mrs Bennet, would be ashamed. ]
( lavender is heavy in the air as he exits the house and into the massive, winding garden outside. he remembers when most of the trees here were little more than saplings. now they tower over him, obscuring the moon and stars hanging above as he strolls past the rows of flowers into the maze. after some walking, he finds his minister of intelligence, monsieur de philippe, at the end. the harsh smoke from his cigarette mingles with the honeysuckle along the evening breeze as the man relates the doings in the capital.
"the interior minister is ill at ease. the general wants to send the army to retrieve you,"monsieur de philippe says languidly as though he speaks of the weather and does he not? constantin glances through the creeping wisteria vines above them to the dark sky. this is but a storm. it soon will pass and be a far-off memory. still, he takes his spymaster's words seriously when he describes the reactions of the other cabinet members. never before has the king been at his summer home for so long with so little communication or explanation. it's unusual for him to be gone for this long. there's an old saying that only the sun works as hard as the king does, so for him to be away on holiday after already being gone from the capital for weeks has sparked a concern within his cabinet.
constantin thanks him with a bow of his head and turns to leave. before he gets three steps away, monsieur de philippe's voice cuts through the air and asks for the lady's name. when his gaze swings back, the spymaster's slight smirk gleams in the faint red glow of his cigarette but it's impossible to gauge his expression in the darkness. constantin doesn't answer and instead wishes him a good night.
but in some way, the storm stays with him and he decides he must return to acacia. with feyre and without an explanation for her strange and sudden appearance in their country. a big reason why he's so hesitant to return is that he doesn't know how to explain her. what is the best way to present her to his people without stirring up fear and unrest? although the common ornefluerian is kind and affable, the common courtier is less so, at least from the onset. how would they treat her? if history indicates anything, it would not be well. but how would his cabinet react to this mysterious woman's pointed ears and magical powers? would they react well or...? the general's response of military force might be the most sensible of them all.
but there is no other choice and, this time two days later, the king is back in acacia. the next day, he holds a cabinet meeting to assuage them of his health and safety. a storm cannot bend him. the day after, there's another cabinet meeting. conferences and briefings take up his hours. life returns to normal, and there's hardly time for him to speak with his guest who wanders the hallways of the blue palace. but then there's hardly time for others to speak of her as well, even when he sees curiosity burning in the eyes of his interior minister and monsiuer de philippe. they are permitted to matters of the state not matters of the heart.
is it so wrong that after a century he grants himself a little spark of joy? that is what the people of ornefluer wish for their dear king, isn't it? to disallow that would be tantamount to blasphemy; a crime against the gods themselves. but, as pleasing as this small concession, constantin cannot forget that it comes as a cost for feyre. she is far from home; away from her family, friends, and everything she loved and knew. trapped in a strange world until... zhiva knows when. despite the fun she might have exploring the blue palace's fifteen hundred rooms, sadness will always overshadow the joy.
constantin knows what it's like to be far from home.
the long-winded minister of agriculture, monsieur reubens has been taken ill so his reports of ornefluer's cheese reserves and apple prices will have to be saved for another day. but now the king has a hole in his schedule. a rare scrap of free time floating in the air. will he let it fly away or will he catch it? he decides the latter.
although he hasn't hunted in some time, tracking is still in his bones. the ravninyraya is still in his blood. it takes little time or effort to locate feyre at the fountain in the royal garden behind the blue palace. it's not unsurprising that she's here โ it is a beautiful and serene place.
but it is her serenity sitting at the fountain that he debates interrupting. he hides behind the corner of a tall hedge. constantin knows what it's like to never have a moment of peace and privacy to oneself. so he decides to let feyre keep it and leave her to her thoughts. ultimately, however, he has no choice in the matter when his dog, a giant dustball with long legs, comes charging up behind him and around the corner. )
Ostanovka, Arakhis!( constantin shouts in his native language. arakhis's long tail escapes his grab and he bolts to the fountain and to feyre. )
( a gray streak cuts the golden expanse of merdorรฉe. the clattering of metal on metal โ the train's gears grinding and wheels rolling on the tracks โ breaks the peacefulness of the early morning. he recalls when it took over four months to arrive at the coast. now, the journey lasts under a week. the royal carriage completes it in three days.
this is unplanned. the king never cares to travel far from the capital, especially for any extended time. his aversion deepens now that it's the nadir of winter and the king is away when the snowbanks pile high on the streets of acacia and thick sheets of ice obstruct the ports. but this is unplanned. a stark change in his routine which many claim one can set a clock to. he was not due to travel this far west until after the new year when the buds on the trees begin to bloom and the farmers are in their fields.
but this is unplanned.
they reach the local capital of panier lourd just as the yellow warblers in the trees begin to sing of their sweetness. he recalls when the city was little more than a few rickety huts perched on the shoals whose residents subsisted largely on jackknife clams. he recalls when it was a fishing town with a couple of wooden boats. now the large stone buildings obscure the sunrise as the king exits the royal carriage, onto the cobblestones, and into his carriage. his arrival does not have any of its typical fanfare but it was unplanned. it's best that his presence here is discreet for this visit is not for pleasure.
it's this discretion that dictated the size and composition of his party. it is small โ the captain of his guard, his valet, the minister of the interior, and the minister of intelligence. as this visit was unplanned, few others were available to make the two-thousand-mile trip on short notice.
even with discretion, however, it's clear the king's presence in panier lourd has been noticed as the stone buildings turn to trees and they arrive outside of the city at the governor's mansion to a party waiting in the front. informing governor thorhauge of their presence in merdorรฉe is not necessary, as his minister of intelligence monsieur de philippe pointed out just before they departed from the railway station. as king, ornefluer is his land and he can travel through it whenever he wants. but this unplanned and discreet visit requires cooperation.
they will need friends in the coming days.
the king's carriage travels up the gravel path and around the grand fountain before stopping in front of the mansion. governor benjamin thorhauge stands with his wife and their five children, each one sleepy-eyed and pink-cheeked in their silk dresses and suits. his servants are lined behind him like a row of soldiers. without waiting for the coachman, constantin lets himself out of the carriage. the morning sun behind him blazes his hair a copper orange as he steps down.
the king is warm in both expression and words as he greets the governor and his wife. they will need friends in the coming day so he cannot be curt and direct just yet. )
[ The chaos bustles around her like a gaggle of haka dancers trying to hit their mark; Enger remains head and shoulders above it all, her pace unhurried and fluid. It only takes a few minutes to steam the worst of the wrinkles out of her dress, and her curls are plaited and pinned out of her face in a matter of seconds.
In truth, the less forgiving northerly climes are a touch colder than Enger is used to. Of all the preparation she had been sent with—language lessons, exacting explanations of the differences in social decorum, the carefully selected gifts for every titled peer she could expect to meet—the one thing her Majesty had let slip was making sure Engerโs clothing was warm and inoffensive. Bare shoulders arenโt done here, oh no, the kind Mistress Thorhauge had informed her, discreet and warm; no bare shoulders and certainly no bare ankles. Silk slippers and jade bangles were set aside in favour of a sturdier pair of boots, although the latter was hardly unfamiliar from her months in the mud-trenched borders back home. There was little to be done for Iskandran fashion other than to offer Enger a selection of coats and hope that people look at foreigner unconvention with indulgence, not derision.
She packed poorly. So what? Doubtless her eleganzia with the Iskandran stripes would have been worse received. No one needs to look at her and think of wars halfway across the world.
When she steps out the front doors, itโs in a borrowed coat of dark, muted purple over a paler dress of grey. The colour profile is neither flattering nor diminishing, although she feels stark and alien as the morning cold hits her all over again.
Tsera is sullen at her back, as always. As they hang back, Enger resists glancing back at her to see what she makes of the kingโs robust entourage. Unfashionable is one thing; indiscreet and provincial is something else entirely. Over and over, she rehearses the Ornefluer pronunciation of your Majesty in her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Enger is aware of the youngest son eschewing decorum to wave at her. Her dimpled smile is directed to the side as she waits for an appropriate pause in the conversation, or to be brought within it. ]
( with a warm but firm hand on the governor's shoulder, they continue to converse in discreet and hushed tones. he does not want to come directly out and state the true purpose of his visit, so this must appear nothing out of the ordinary to any outside observers. the king merely decided, on a whim, to take a winter vacation to merdorรฉe. warm his old bones. he is allowed spontaneity once a century, isn't he?
the captain of the king's guard and the intelligence minister stand a few feet from them, far enough away for privacy but close enough in case anything untoward should occur. the king's eyes shift and catch the figures of two unknown people standing just out of his direct line of vision. in a louder voice, he says, ) It must have been longer than I remembered since my last visit. Your household has grown substantially since then.
(monsieur de philippe, his intelligence minister, steps forward and whispers their true identities to the king. constantin's eyebrow raises and his gaze sweeps back to the two figures. ) My apologies. I was not aware that we had the honor of hosting Iskandran royalty.
( governor thorhauge sputters out an excuse, saying that his telegram messages must not have reached the king's attention but that he certainly ordered that communication be sent. of course, it has nothing to do with his almost extreme desire for competition and superiority โ if the blue palace was told of the royals' stay, they might leave his state for the capital, and then what can the governor boast of?
constantin ignores him and walks over, bowing to them and speaking their native language with ease and friendliness, )Good morning. Is the Queen in good health and spirits?
( their presence complicates things โ perhaps. it could mean nothing. but constantin might have to be more discreet than he normally would if it was only his subjects and countrymen in the household. he may have more to worry about than eavesdropping maids or imprudent children sneaking into meetings. perhaps. )
[ The exchange between his Majesty and the Governor is translated softly for Tsera, who only comes in two modes: scowling and extra scowling, and is ready to lift her nose up and take considerable offense to this whole affair. Enger, despite her title, wasnโt given the same robust entourage to cloister herself in as, ahem, others on this lawn were; sometimes, she thinks her Majesty approved Tsera as an armed attendant purely because she made Enger look particularly agreeable by comparison.
Neither of them expect to be greeted in Iskandran. The tongue of the Tamrakar, the Khanal, the five or so other squabbling little families, as well as scholars of note and entrepreneurs of repute. The language making it across shores is one thing; that the king himself took note and sought to learn was something else entirely.
Enger notes two things.
The first is that she and Tsera will not be able to speak privately in his presence, nor can they know what other ears can hear as the Governorโs hospitality stretches. (Thereโs always Iskan, but she doesnโt need the headache of trying to peel back Tseraโs accent.)
The second is that some of his pronunciation, although crisp, although maintaining a clear and comprehensible accent, is outdated. Sitting at her great-grandmotherโs knee, a dutiful child, she remembers those particular vowel sounds. Theyโve since fallen out of disuseโ
Ah. No. A pointless thing to quibble at, she decides. After all, Enger hadnโt seen a steam engine or, indeed, prominent steel engineering of any kind before crossing the ocean. Itโs the same thing.
With a smile in reserve, she dips her chin. Taking his cue, she answers in Iskandran. ]
She is, your Majesty, and I know she would be pleased you are asking after her. She has sent a gift for Ornefluerโs king, with warm regards and hopes of a continuing friendship.
[ With a slight indicative gesture, tilting a shoulder to the space behind her, ]
Allow me to introduce my retainer, Fahime Tsera. [ Here, she switches to his language, with an accent considerably thicker than his own when speaking hers, and only the occasional conjugation error. ] She is not familiar with [ language name here help ], but we are both hoping to increase our skill in the coming weeks. Please, do not slow down for us. [ And then, carefully, with understanding of their audience - ] Of course, Governor Thorhauge has been a very kind host.
( of course the queen has sent a gift for him with hopes of a continuing friendship. with the hope that he will join the war on their side. as constantin informed the queen's predecessor, though ornefluerians have an aversion to war and conflict. ironic, given that fluer, their patron deity, is sometimes prone to such violent moods that unnerve even the god of war.
ornefluerian memories, however, last long. they remember the price of their last war three hundred years ago: blood on the sand and thousands massacred in minutes. all because of an imagined slight and a bruised ego. the monarchy remembers the price of the last war as well: power and almost its head.
constantin is determined to keep ornefluerian blood from ever spilling.
with the serene and warm countenance of a host, he bows in greeting to the princess's retainer. )Delighted to make thy acquaintance.
( his attention returns to the princess and to ornewood. his accent with the language isn't as noticeable as hers is and, perhaps, won't be apparent until he's heard conversing with a native speaker. ) I am not surprised. Governor Thorhauge is a very kind man. ( to those on his side. to those whom he does not see as competition. he is a very kind man in many regards and, in particular, in how kindly he spreads his suspicious and cutthroat opportunism.
the stares of the governor, along with the rest of the king's entourage, especially his minister of intelligence, is heavy on his back. this is no time for extended pleasantries, even with foreign dignitaries.
with a deeper bow, constantin bids the pair farewell. ) Excuse me. ( he turns to briefly rejoin the governor and his entourage before the group enters the governor's mansion and its bowels where they cannot be disturbed as they conduct their official business. constantin recalls when the mansion was built and how the first governor to stay within its walls was so paranoid that she insisted that secret corridors be dug and built. her paranoia proves beneficial as the king can speak freely as to the reason for his unexpected and impromptu visit. )
[ (un?)fortunately, Margaery thinks nothing of Constantin's very mild departure in tone, although she does wonder why it feels like something's missing... ]
The thought of you as a shepherd is more endearing than I'd like to admit. Was this before or after your growth spurt?
No, thankfully, once I remembered the time, it was as if the rest of my body also remembered it had something else it should've been doing.
Once I had the strength to hold onto the hook, I was a shepherd. After I was considered grown at twelve, I became a pastukh or yak herder. I also reared horses, which I preferred.
( the children tended the sheep while the adults tended the yaks and horses. constantin wonders if that's still how it is in the ravninyraya. )
We had almost two hundred yaks, and each one required great care. Have you seen a yak, Margaery?
[ Fortunately, Enger isnโt one to take dismissal poorly. She dips her chin and returns inside ahead of the group, quietly eager to be out of the cold. Tsera and her scowl are only just behind.
But a royal entourage takes time to greet, and even more time to settle. Enger stays out of the way a-purpose, joining Madame Thorhauge in her parlour for mid-morning tea and conversation—language lessons, by way of conversational practice, although the madame is kind enough not to call it that—before retiring back to her rooms once the flurry has abated. (Princess and retainer both remain sensitive to every sound, every muffled voice and footfall.)
At the appropriate hour, a servant hand delivers a written message to Constantinโs rooms. Itโs sealed with a wax stamp depicting three stylised cresting waves and seven stars dotted in the space above, but written on borrowed stationery. The Thorhauge watermark is a bit unsightly, yes, but it can hardly be helped. The message itself is concise, bordering on austere, and painstakingly written in crisp calligraphy. While Engerโs spoken Orneord might be a touch fumbling in places, the only accusation one can make of her written Orneord is an uncanny, careful formality. Perfection, but alien.
In it, she requests sitting down for a conversation. Perhaps over lunch or tea, although she understands that heโs quite busy and will endeavour not to take up too much of his valuable time. Signed, Enger Khanal. No title; no national identifier to cling like burrs to a hemline.
If the seal is broken upon delivery, it will not be Engerโs doing. But sheโs purposeful in writing nothing curious, nothing that wandering eyes could find fault or opportunity in. It would be far odder for her to ignore him, after all.
Besides, if he declines to reply, thereโs always dinner that evening, and however many extra plates the Governor will be accommodating. ]
[ grown at twelve. what a thought. although, Margaery shouldn't be so surprised when some girls find themselves to be considered women at an even younger age. ]
I have not. The word itself seems to be so strange, almost as if it's been cut off before being completed fully.
Indeed, the word is incomplete. It originates from "Jacobin", Volosko's companion and the ancestor of our herds. Younger members who share the same name as their parent are sometimes referred to by their diminutive form. Therefore,
"Jacobin" โ "Jac" โ "Yak"
All one hundred and sixty members of my tribe were responsible for the yaks. Even the chief. Other groups of Horsepeople roaming the Ravninyraya with their herds of yaks, sheep, and horses operate similarly.
These giant, long-haired cattle are found only there, however. While the herds in the Nebesnyypodval that my people now tend to are unique to that area, they are not descendants of Jacobin and, therefore, are not "jacs."
One of the things I appreciate most about you is how willing you are to teach me, Constantin. It is no small thing.
So if I'm understanding you correctly: if we had a son named Jacobin, and he went on to have a son, we could call our grandchild "Jac" as a pet name, even if he had his own namesake?
I appreciate your willingness to ask questions and learn, Marg.
If Jacobin and his son shared the name, then indeed, the son would be called "Jac." If Jacobin gave his son a name of his own, he would be called by that name, not "Jac."
My mother passed away when I was very young, and I fear that if I name my daughter after her, I will unknowingly place the burden of nostalgia on her.
If we are to name our children after people we know and cherish, I would prefer they be those we know and love well enough to also acknowledge and accept their flaws.
( the seal remaining unbroken upon delivery is a testament to the skill and artfulness of his minister of intelligence, monsieur de philippe. not that the king would notice or care, considering the stress of the long trip, the meeting, and the matter weighing heavily on his mind. by the time he receives the message, he is being dressed in his white tunic by his valet. he finishes the letter just as the blue sash is draped over his shoulders and the medallion that hangs around his neck is adjusted.
so he has no opportunity to reply to her request for a conversation, as reasonable as it is, before a servant leads him to the dining room. but there is little use for a written reply when he expects to see her at dinner, where he can give a verbal one. although the trip's purpose is singularly focused on the country's navy, as king, constantin is still expected to attend to diplomatic matters as if the situation doesn't exist and everything is fine.
nothing is amiss, and he can quite easily pretend as such as he waits outside the dining room for his entrance. any worry detected on his blank expression could be attributed to the dinner's seating arrangement. as king, it's only proper that his place is at the head of the table. as it is the governor's mansion, the governor's dinner, and the governor's ego, however, thorhauge should be at the head. constantin has no opinion on the matter, seeing as he has spent most of his life at the end or middle of the table. only recently, in his eyes, has he sat at the head.
thankfully, it turns out to be of no concern when, finally, his name is announced, and he enters the dining room with its silk wallpaper and portraits of fluer and sees a tastefully arranged vase of tulips on a circular dining table. they are all friends here โ the king, the governor and his wife, the minister of the interior, the minister of intelligence, captain thea walling of the king's guard, a bishop of fluer, and a princess of iskander โ with no need for a hierarchy.
with a practiced smile, constantin bids everyone to sit and takes the only empty chair at the table, between madame thorhauge and the duchess des hauteurs. )
In my clan, it is traditional not to name a child after a person who is alive (excluding the parent, of course), so as not to place a burden of expectation on them. It could also be misconstrued as a wish for that person to die.
( although the horsepeople do not fear death, it is a misconception that they welcome it. they will fight against it, fearfully and fiercely, until the end. )
[ the last part of his explanation probably shouldn't have made her laugh - at the very least, she can claim she simply choked on a small piece of biscuit as she reads his note over a short tea break. ]
I have never once considered that such a thing might also be presented as a possible death wish, but I suppose I can see where it comes from.
Thank you. I think Alerie is a beautiful name as well. Although I suppose my grandmother was more of my parent than my mother ever got to be - how do you feel about Olenna?
[ The theatrics of dinner with a sitting king nearly catch her off guard, compared to the previous nights. Tsera being banished to eat with the servants isnโt terribly new, but it does make Enger even more acutely aware of the lack of spacing between words of casual speed and that Ornefluer custom uses twice as many utensils as sheโs used to.
Servants shuffle around, removing warming dishes and delivery refills of bread and butter, popping corks on bottles. When one takes the liberty of setting a fine cloth napkin on Engerโs lap, she nearly flinches.
The first course passes by. Smiling beatifically between dainty bites, Enger spends much of it in her own head.
For example:
Donโt reach over people. No, donโt reach for things at all. Let the servants curate your meal. Pull your sleeve up, Mistress Thorhauge already called your blackwork barbaric. This fork, not that one. No, that one. Itโs just oil made of olives. Yes, itโs delicious. Calm down. You donโt want a repeat of the butter incident.
But not a drop is spilled, not a hair turned nor fumble made into a fracas. The conversation proceeds without much interest in her for the first little while; and sheโs rather relieved by it, particularly when her hands stop growing clammy at every unseen entrance over her shoulder or footsteps behind her back. In fact, the only other person who doesnโt seem to regard the staff as pleasantly invisible is the minister of intelligence. More than once, she notes his eyes seem to be everywhere at once with nary an untoward flicker of an eyelash.
It is only when the entree is served that sheโs drawn into the conversation. And by drawn into, we mean made the focal point of.
Evidently, they had been talking about religion. Several words and even more references escaped her, but when the Bishop of Fluer inquires about sending apostles to Iskander to help spread the library of God, she inclines her head calmly. ]
I am sure there are many back home who would greatly appreciate a sharing of ideas, your Excellency. But, Iskanderโs situation being what it is, I could not in good conscience accept your apostles when I cannot guarantee their safety in the crossing.
[ Itโs even true. Regardless of the Bishopโs inquiry making her teeth feel sore with its benign presumptions.
He seems to accept that response, and proceeds to describe how he would be happy to send a trunk full of literature—Bibles, he calls them—for her to have distributed among her countrymen.
She smiles like he and she are the best friends in the world. ]
I am honoured you trust me to escort something so dear to you, your Excellency.
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good god, if i miss anything world wise or mess it up, give me a shove and be like LISTEN HERE
and so here she was, left to her own devices while his royal majesty was off doing whatever he needed to tend to now that he was back home.
for a better part of her stay since they'd arrival by carriage late in the evening, she'd wandered the halls the same as she done in the spring court whenever tamlin would leave her to patrol his borders with lucien. familiarized herself with as much as she could as neither she nor constantin knew of when she might be able to return to her own world โ if she could. the decor and splendor of it was what she admired the most, poking her head into any room she came upon; there was no way she would be able to see all of the 1,500 rooms the palace housed.
by the end of the week, feyre grew restless while being a busybody. it was a feeling she detested more than anything else. restlessness and the unknown. she'd tried not to grimace whenever her personal assigned maids would bother her in the mornings to help her dress and do her hair; she was quickly becoming to loathe the high-collared dresses, the fussing, the braids and curls. oh how she longed for pants and was in half a mind to make the one and only demand of constantin: clear her wardrobe of the dresses, put pants and leathers in their place.
she wondered how scandalized her maids would be should she walk out of her chambers in the illyrian leathers she'd worn upon arriving in this world, the leathers and her weapons and the heavy hooded cloak all that she'd had on her when the king had crossed her (unconscious) path.
ignoring the hushed whispers as she passed (whispers only so bold when she was alone), the heavy skirts of dark gray rustling with her steps down the wide hall that would lead her out into the back gardens she'd spotted out among the sprawling and well cared for lands. it took a matter of moments for her to reach the tall hedges, not daring a look back in case someone followed her before she stepped one foot forward and let her curiosity take her.
a half hour later and she found herself in what appeared to be a dead end, a more secluded section complete with a small fountain and seating. birdsong, trickling water โ peaceful. she let out a soft sigh, shoulders dropping. solitude. no whispering servants, no guards side eying her as she passed by or their gazes following her every step, no upturned noses (how dare this unknown young woman with zero status take up residence in the king's palace).
a slow breath released as she sat on the edge of the fountain, shifting until she was comfortable with all the layers. sitting in absolute silence, her eyes closed, face turning up to the breeze, taking the moment to listen, to hear its whisper. the corners of her lips turn down in a faint frown. nothing. no words whispered sweetly into her ears, no gentle caresses. was this world truly so different? a pang squeezed in her chest and she had to lift a hand to press over it as she continued to frown to herself.
how she longed to leave, to return to her world. but how? where to start? she could never be disrespectful to the king who'd helped her when he could have simply carried on and left her in the ditch.
feyre leaned over, hand lowering to the cold water. fingers trailed through it, swirled, and, a knit in her brow forming, thin tendrils rose up. moved together, intertwined. the actions, though appearing easy, straightforward, brought out a heaviness pressing in against her breast that she ignored in favour of continuing with her attempting to access her magic. it was a pressure that she assumed was due to the corset strings drawn in too tight, nothing more. )
kicks down the door!!!!
(โI can write my own communiques,โ she had commented to her father over dinner. She only let her brow furrow in private.
โA piece of bait doesnโt unlatch her own cage,โ he remarked.
โI think of it more as... planting a garden,โ Enger said. โPerhaps the queen has decided the north could use more bistort.โ
In reply, he only smiled at her and pointed out that she had eaten her whole meal in under three minutes with only her fork; all while her dominant hand wrapped so tightly around her knife the blunt edge of the utensil left a crease in her palm. The message was clear: Enger wasnโt willowy bistort, she was a stinging nettle or a barberry shrub.)
It takes little time to get her trunk packed and her papers in order, although Enger turns down the offer of a palanquin to the coast in favour of a horse and a discreet guard wearing the porterโs unassuming costume. No one expects her to travel unescorted, of course; even if Iskander wasnโt pushing further south with impunity and greed, a commodity needs must accept its cage. Tsera is assigned in lieu of a contingent of guards; standing a head shorter than the princess, only a very keen eye could spot the knives and poison-tinged blow darts strapped to her person.
The trip across the ocean is dull, except when it isnโt. As autumn tips into the beginning of winter, Enger wraps herself in borrowed furs and watches the whales on the horizon. Tsera hovers, mulish about the mouth, at her elbow without respite. They only encounter one storm, the lightning spectacular against the furious, violet sky.
The ocean becomes land. Land becomes a port. The port becomes a smattering of villages and then a city. The breadbasket, they call it. Noise filters in like the angry, orchestrated cry of a barrel of gulls; the sentences of Ornefluerโs people have no spaces between words for Enger to get a foothold. Her lessons in the language had not accounted for the volley of accents across the region. When she can get away with it, she smiles wordlessly and defers the conversation. Sheโs always been told she has a lovely smile. Half the time, it works.
In the governorโs manse, sheโs given the largest guest suiteโa parlour with a side alcove as an office space, a bedchamber boasting magnificent double doors, an ensuite bath. (Tsera disappears sullenly down the hall into a smaller room. Enger lets her go, keeping a knife under her pillow as she has for the past five years.)
For a few weeks, Enger gets her bearings. She adjusts her body to the new demands of the sunโs rise and set. She borrows books from the libraries to practice her reading and writing. She entertains, often at the drop of a hat; the governorโs spouse and children, lords and ladies with financial considerations in the breadbasket; one surprisingly long conversation with a retired general fascinated by Iskanderโs policy of mandatory military service (โbut youโre a princess!โ he had blustered, mustache quivering with such force she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing); and whoever else wishes to speak with her.
After the past few years, Enger finds herself grateful for the quiet grace of tediumโeven if she continues to freeze at every popped cork and every chair leg screeching across the floor.
Sheโs frequently awake before the sun and around the same time as the house staff, nursing tea as they bustle for breakfast. One day, the bustle outs with more chaos than usual, bodies hurrying up and down. When the governor rushes out of their rooms without even stopping to say hello, Enger watches with bewilderment and gently gets a maidโs attention. ]
Has something happened?
[ The maid pauses, clutching a small basket of eggs. ]
The king has been spotted inโ [ Exactly where the king was supposedly spotted is a word Enger doesnโt recognise, but she nods like she understands.
Just in case, she goes back to her suite and pulls one of her finest dresses out from the bottom of her trunk.
It is, of course, terribly wrinkled. Jane Austen's byronic hero, Mrs Bennet, would be ashamed. ]
i am so embarrassed of myself ๐ฉ
"the interior minister is ill at ease. the general wants to send the army to retrieve you," monsieur de philippe says languidly as though he speaks of the weather and does he not? constantin glances through the creeping wisteria vines above them to the dark sky. this is but a storm. it soon will pass and be a far-off memory. still, he takes his spymaster's words seriously when he describes the reactions of the other cabinet members. never before has the king been at his summer home for so long with so little communication or explanation. it's unusual for him to be gone for this long. there's an old saying that only the sun works as hard as the king does, so for him to be away on holiday after already being gone from the capital for weeks has sparked a concern within his cabinet.
constantin thanks him with a bow of his head and turns to leave. before he gets three steps away, monsieur de philippe's voice cuts through the air and asks for the lady's name. when his gaze swings back, the spymaster's slight smirk gleams in the faint red glow of his cigarette but it's impossible to gauge his expression in the darkness. constantin doesn't answer and instead wishes him a good night.
but in some way, the storm stays with him and he decides he must return to acacia. with feyre and without an explanation for her strange and sudden appearance in their country. a big reason why he's so hesitant to return is that he doesn't know how to explain her. what is the best way to present her to his people without stirring up fear and unrest? although the common ornefluerian is kind and affable, the common courtier is less so, at least from the onset. how would they treat her? if history indicates anything, it would not be well. but how would his cabinet react to this mysterious woman's pointed ears and magical powers? would they react well or...? the general's response of military force might be the most sensible of them all.
but there is no other choice and, this time two days later, the king is back in acacia. the next day, he holds a cabinet meeting to assuage them of his health and safety. a storm cannot bend him. the day after, there's another cabinet meeting. conferences and briefings take up his hours. life returns to normal, and there's hardly time for him to speak with his guest who wanders the hallways of the blue palace. but then there's hardly time for others to speak of her as well, even when he sees curiosity burning in the eyes of his interior minister and monsiuer de philippe. they are permitted to matters of the state not matters of the heart.
is it so wrong that after a century he grants himself a little spark of joy? that is what the people of ornefluer wish for their dear king, isn't it? to disallow that would be tantamount to blasphemy; a crime against the gods themselves. but, as pleasing as this small concession, constantin cannot forget that it comes as a cost for feyre. she is far from home; away from her family, friends, and everything she loved and knew. trapped in a strange world until... zhiva knows when. despite the fun she might have exploring the blue palace's fifteen hundred rooms, sadness will always overshadow the joy.
constantin knows what it's like to be far from home.
the long-winded minister of agriculture, monsieur reubens has been taken ill so his reports of ornefluer's cheese reserves and apple prices will have to be saved for another day. but now the king has a hole in his schedule. a rare scrap of free time floating in the air. will he let it fly away or will he catch it? he decides the latter.
although he hasn't hunted in some time, tracking is still in his bones. the ravninyraya is still in his blood. it takes little time or effort to locate feyre at the fountain in the royal garden behind the blue palace. it's not unsurprising that she's here โ it is a beautiful and serene place.
but it is her serenity sitting at the fountain that he debates interrupting. he hides behind the corner of a tall hedge. constantin knows what it's like to never have a moment of peace and privacy to oneself. so he decides to let feyre keep it and leave her to her thoughts. ultimately, however, he has no choice in the matter when his dog, a giant dustball with long legs, comes charging up behind him and around the corner. )
Ostanovka, Arakhis! ( constantin shouts in his native language. arakhis's long tail escapes his grab and he bolts to the fountain and to feyre. )
gets hit by the door!!!!
this is unplanned. the king never cares to travel far from the capital, especially for any extended time. his aversion deepens now that it's the nadir of winter and the king is away when the snowbanks pile high on the streets of acacia and thick sheets of ice obstruct the ports. but this is unplanned. a stark change in his routine which many claim one can set a clock to. he was not due to travel this far west until after the new year when the buds on the trees begin to bloom and the farmers are in their fields.
but this is unplanned.
they reach the local capital of panier lourd just as the yellow warblers in the trees begin to sing of their sweetness. he recalls when the city was little more than a few rickety huts perched on the shoals whose residents subsisted largely on jackknife clams. he recalls when it was a fishing town with a couple of wooden boats. now the large stone buildings obscure the sunrise as the king exits the royal carriage, onto the cobblestones, and into his carriage. his arrival does not have any of its typical fanfare but it was unplanned. it's best that his presence here is discreet for this visit is not for pleasure.
it's this discretion that dictated the size and composition of his party. it is small โ the captain of his guard, his valet, the minister of the interior, and the minister of intelligence. as this visit was unplanned, few others were available to make the two-thousand-mile trip on short notice.
even with discretion, however, it's clear the king's presence in panier lourd has been noticed as the stone buildings turn to trees and they arrive outside of the city at the governor's mansion to a party waiting in the front. informing governor thorhauge of their presence in merdorรฉe is not necessary, as his minister of intelligence monsieur de philippe pointed out just before they departed from the railway station. as king, ornefluer is his land and he can travel through it whenever he wants. but this unplanned and discreet visit requires cooperation.
they will need friends in the coming days.
the king's carriage travels up the gravel path and around the grand fountain before stopping in front of the mansion. governor benjamin thorhauge stands with his wife and their five children, each one sleepy-eyed and pink-cheeked in their silk dresses and suits. his servants are lined behind him like a row of soldiers. without waiting for the coachman, constantin lets himself out of the carriage. the morning sun behind him blazes his hair a copper orange as he steps down.
the king is warm in both expression and words as he greets the governor and his wife. they will need friends in the coming day so he cannot be curt and direct just yet. )
oh no............ you died!!!!
In truth, the less forgiving northerly climes are a touch colder than Enger is used to. Of all the preparation she had been sent with—language lessons, exacting explanations of the differences in social decorum, the carefully selected gifts for every titled peer she could expect to meet—the one thing her Majesty had let slip was making sure Engerโs clothing was warm and inoffensive. Bare shoulders arenโt done here, oh no, the kind Mistress Thorhauge had informed her, discreet and warm; no bare shoulders and certainly no bare ankles. Silk slippers and jade bangles were set aside in favour of a sturdier pair of boots, although the latter was hardly unfamiliar from her months in the mud-trenched borders back home. There was little to be done for Iskandran fashion other than to offer Enger a selection of coats and hope that people look at foreigner unconvention with indulgence, not derision.
She packed poorly. So what? Doubtless her eleganzia with the Iskandran stripes would have been worse received. No one needs to look at her and think of wars halfway across the world.
When she steps out the front doors, itโs in a borrowed coat of dark, muted purple over a paler dress of grey. The colour profile is neither flattering nor diminishing, although she feels stark and alien as the morning cold hits her all over again.
Tsera is sullen at her back, as always. As they hang back, Enger resists glancing back at her to see what she makes of the kingโs robust entourage. Unfashionable is one thing; indiscreet and provincial is something else entirely. Over and over, she rehearses the Ornefluer pronunciation of your Majesty in her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Enger is aware of the youngest son eschewing decorum to wave at her. Her dimpled smile is directed to the side as she waits for an appropriate pause in the conversation, or to be brought within it. ]
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the captain of the king's guard and the intelligence minister stand a few feet from them, far enough away for privacy but close enough in case anything untoward should occur. the king's eyes shift and catch the figures of two unknown people standing just out of his direct line of vision. in a louder voice, he says, ) It must have been longer than I remembered since my last visit. Your household has grown substantially since then.
( monsieur de philippe, his intelligence minister, steps forward and whispers their true identities to the king. constantin's eyebrow raises and his gaze sweeps back to the two figures. ) My apologies. I was not aware that we had the honor of hosting Iskandran royalty.
( governor thorhauge sputters out an excuse, saying that his telegram messages must not have reached the king's attention but that he certainly ordered that communication be sent. of course, it has nothing to do with his almost extreme desire for competition and superiority โ if the blue palace was told of the royals' stay, they might leave his state for the capital, and then what can the governor boast of?
constantin ignores him and walks over, bowing to them and speaking their native language with ease and friendliness, ) Good morning. Is the Queen in good health and spirits?
( their presence complicates things โ perhaps. it could mean nothing. but constantin might have to be more discreet than he normally would if it was only his subjects and countrymen in the household. he may have more to worry about than eavesdropping maids or imprudent children sneaking into meetings. perhaps. )
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Neither of them expect to be greeted in Iskandran. The tongue of the Tamrakar, the Khanal, the five or so other squabbling little families, as well as scholars of note and entrepreneurs of repute. The language making it across shores is one thing; that the king himself took note and sought to learn was something else entirely.
Enger notes two things.
The first is that she and Tsera will not be able to speak privately in his presence, nor can they know what other ears can hear as the Governorโs hospitality stretches. (Thereโs always Iskan, but she doesnโt need the headache of trying to peel back Tseraโs accent.)
The second is that some of his pronunciation, although crisp, although maintaining a clear and comprehensible accent, is outdated. Sitting at her great-grandmotherโs knee, a dutiful child, she remembers those particular vowel sounds. Theyโve since fallen out of disuseโ
Ah. No. A pointless thing to quibble at, she decides. After all, Enger hadnโt seen a steam engine or, indeed, prominent steel engineering of any kind before crossing the ocean. Itโs the same thing.
With a smile in reserve, she dips her chin. Taking his cue, she answers in Iskandran. ]
She is, your Majesty, and I know she would be pleased you are asking after her. She has sent a gift for Ornefluerโs king, with warm regards and hopes of a continuing friendship.
[ With a slight indicative gesture, tilting a shoulder to the space behind her, ]
Allow me to introduce my retainer, Fahime Tsera. [ Here, she switches to his language, with an accent considerably thicker than his own when speaking hers, and only the occasional conjugation error. ] She is not familiar with [ language name here help ], but we are both hoping to increase our skill in the coming weeks. Please, do not slow down for us. [ And then, carefully, with understanding of their audience - ] Of course, Governor Thorhauge has been a very kind host.
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ornefluerian memories, however, last long. they remember the price of their last war three hundred years ago: blood on the sand and thousands massacred in minutes. all because of an imagined slight and a bruised ego. the monarchy remembers the price of the last war as well: power and almost its head.
constantin is determined to keep ornefluerian blood from ever spilling.
with the serene and warm countenance of a host, he bows in greeting to the princess's retainer. ) Delighted to make thy acquaintance.
( his attention returns to the princess and to ornewood. his accent with the language isn't as noticeable as hers is and, perhaps, won't be apparent until he's heard conversing with a native speaker. ) I am not surprised. Governor Thorhauge is a very kind man. ( to those on his side. to those whom he does not see as competition. he is a very kind man in many regards and, in particular, in how kindly he spreads his suspicious and cutthroat opportunism.
the stares of the governor, along with the rest of the king's entourage, especially his minister of intelligence, is heavy on his back. this is no time for extended pleasantries, even with foreign dignitaries.
with a deeper bow, constantin bids the pair farewell. ) Excuse me. ( he turns to briefly rejoin the governor and his entourage before the group enters the governor's mansion and its bowels where they cannot be disturbed as they conduct their official business. constantin recalls when the mansion was built and how the first governor to stay within its walls was so paranoid that she insisted that secret corridors be dug and built. her paranoia proves beneficial as the king can speak freely as to the reason for his unexpected and impromptu visit. )
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[ (un?)fortunately, Margaery thinks nothing of Constantin's very mild departure in tone, although she does wonder why it feels like something's missing... ]
The thought of you as a shepherd is more endearing than I'd like to admit. Was this before or after your growth spurt?
No, thankfully, once I remembered the time, it was as if the rest of my body also remembered it had something else it should've been doing.
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( the children tended the sheep while the adults tended the yaks and horses. constantin wonders if that's still how it is in the ravninyraya. )
We had almost two hundred yaks, and each one required great care.
Have you seen a yak, Margaery?
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But a royal entourage takes time to greet, and even more time to settle. Enger stays out of the way a-purpose, joining Madame Thorhauge in her parlour for mid-morning tea and conversation—language lessons, by way of conversational practice, although the madame is kind enough not to call it that—before retiring back to her rooms once the flurry has abated. (Princess and retainer both remain sensitive to every sound, every muffled voice and footfall.)
At the appropriate hour, a servant hand delivers a written message to Constantinโs rooms. Itโs sealed with a wax stamp depicting three stylised cresting waves and seven stars dotted in the space above, but written on borrowed stationery. The Thorhauge watermark is a bit unsightly, yes, but it can hardly be helped. The message itself is concise, bordering on austere, and painstakingly written in crisp calligraphy. While Engerโs spoken Orneord might be a touch fumbling in places, the only accusation one can make of her written Orneord is an uncanny, careful formality. Perfection, but alien.
In it, she requests sitting down for a conversation. Perhaps over lunch or tea, although she understands that heโs quite busy and will endeavour not to take up too much of his valuable time. Signed, Enger Khanal. No title; no national identifier to cling like burrs to a hemline.
If the seal is broken upon delivery, it will not be Engerโs doing. But sheโs purposeful in writing nothing curious, nothing that wandering eyes could find fault or opportunity in. It would be far odder for her to ignore him, after all.
Besides, if he declines to reply, thereโs always dinner that evening, and however many extra plates the Governor will be accommodating. ]
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I have not. The word itself seems to be so strange, almost as if it's been cut off before being completed fully.
How many yak herders were there?
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"Jacobin" โ "Jac" โ "Yak"
All one hundred and sixty members of my tribe were responsible for the yaks. Even the chief. Other groups of Horsepeople roaming the Ravninyraya with their herds of yaks, sheep, and horses operate similarly.
These giant, long-haired cattle are found only there, however. While the herds in the Nebesnyypodval that my people now tend to are unique to that area, they are not descendants of Jacobin and, therefore, are not "jacs."
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So if I'm understanding you correctly: if we had a son named Jacobin, and he went on to have a son, we could call our grandchild "Jac" as a pet name, even if he had his own namesake?
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If Jacobin and his son shared the name, then indeed, the son would be called "Jac." If Jacobin gave his son a name of his own, he would be called by that name, not "Jac."
Do you like the name?
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I would like for you to name our son, if we're blessed with one. I imagine it means as much for your people as it would for us?
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( apologies to his private secretary, madame jacobine affrรฉ. it is a fine, strong name but not for his child. )
Yes. I imagine our people will be as overjoyed for a prince or princess as we will be.
Your opinion shall be considered in the naming of any child, of course.
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I see. In that case, I'm very relieved that I'm not at all attached to that name.
Is there anyone you'd want to name your child after? Nacogdoches, perhaps?
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Is there anyone you wish to name our child after?
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She and her cousin would be in the same room only on occasion.
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I have no preferences, aside from those names that have been marred by people who had them.
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If we are to name our children after people we know and cherish, I would prefer they be those we know and love well enough to also acknowledge and accept their flaws.
Do you think that's silly?
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so he has no opportunity to reply to her request for a conversation, as reasonable as it is, before a servant leads him to the dining room. but there is little use for a written reply when he expects to see her at dinner, where he can give a verbal one. although the trip's purpose is singularly focused on the country's navy, as king, constantin is still expected to attend to diplomatic matters as if the situation doesn't exist and everything is fine.
nothing is amiss, and he can quite easily pretend as such as he waits outside the dining room for his entrance. any worry detected on his blank expression could be attributed to the dinner's seating arrangement. as king, it's only proper that his place is at the head of the table. as it is the governor's mansion, the governor's dinner, and the governor's ego, however, thorhauge should be at the head. constantin has no opinion on the matter, seeing as he has spent most of his life at the end or middle of the table. only recently, in his eyes, has he sat at the head.
thankfully, it turns out to be of no concern when, finally, his name is announced, and he enters the dining room with its silk wallpaper and portraits of fluer and sees a tastefully arranged vase of tulips on a circular dining table. they are all friends here โ the king, the governor and his wife, the minister of the interior, the minister of intelligence, captain thea walling of the king's guard, a bishop of fluer, and a princess of iskander โ with no need for a hierarchy.
with a practiced smile, constantin bids everyone to sit and takes the only empty chair at the table, between madame thorhauge and the duchess des hauteurs. )
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In my clan, it is traditional not to name a child after a person who is alive (excluding the parent, of course), so as not to place a burden of expectation on them. It could also be misconstrued as a wish for that person to die.
( although the horsepeople do not fear death, it is a misconception that they welcome it. they will fight against it, fearfully and fiercely, until the end. )
Alerie is a beautiful name, however.
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I have never once considered that such a thing might also be presented as a possible death wish, but I suppose I can see where it comes from.
Thank you. I think Alerie is a beautiful name as well. Although I suppose my grandmother was more of my parent than my mother ever got to be - how do you feel about Olenna?
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If you wish to bestow it on a daughter, I would have no objections.
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๐
You win this round, darling. x
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Servants shuffle around, removing warming dishes and delivery refills of bread and butter, popping corks on bottles. When one takes the liberty of setting a fine cloth napkin on Engerโs lap, she nearly flinches.
The first course passes by. Smiling beatifically between dainty bites, Enger spends much of it in her own head.
For example:But not a drop is spilled, not a hair turned nor fumble made into a fracas. The conversation proceeds without much interest in her for the first little while; and sheโs rather relieved by it, particularly when her hands stop growing clammy at every unseen entrance over her shoulder or footsteps behind her back. In fact, the only other person who doesnโt seem to regard the staff as pleasantly invisible is the minister of intelligence. More than once, she notes his eyes seem to be everywhere at once with nary an untoward flicker of an eyelash.
It is only when the entree is served that sheโs drawn into the conversation. And by drawn into, we mean made the focal point of.
Evidently, they had been talking about religion. Several words and even more references escaped her, but when the Bishop of Fluer inquires about sending apostles to Iskander to help spread the library of God, she inclines her head calmly. ]
I am sure there are many back home who would greatly appreciate a sharing of ideas, your Excellency. But, Iskanderโs situation being what it is, I could not in good conscience accept your apostles when I cannot guarantee their safety in the crossing.
[ Itโs even true. Regardless of the Bishopโs inquiry making her teeth feel sore with its benign presumptions.
He seems to accept that response, and proceeds to describe how he would be happy to send a trunk full of literature—Bibles, he calls them—for her to have distributed among her countrymen.
She smiles like he and she are the best friends in the world. ]
I am honoured you trust me to escort something so dear to you, your Excellency.
[ Anyway, whatโs the rest of the table doing? ]