seneschal's eyes bulged. "Highness!" he croaked. "He is… he is in the orchards, tending to the fall mulching. Perhaps you would prefer to wait until—"
"Bring him," I said simply.
Jerome Bargot bowed. "As you will."
We lounged in the great room and waited while Maslin was summoned. The fire crackled. We grew warm and threw off our cloaks. Hugues brought out his wooden flute and played a simple, merry tune. A serving maid brought a plate of bread and meat and strong mustard, and Gilot caught her eye, grasping her hands and convincing her to dance a measure with him until she drew away, laughing and protesting.
It reminded me of Montrève, and I was smiling when Maslin arrived.
He brought with him a strong whiff of dung. I rose when he entered the great room. We took each other's measure at a glance. Hugues' flute fell silent. Firelight laid a ruddy crown on Maslin's pale hair. He clenched his fists, with half-moons of dirt under the crescents of his nails, and inclined his head. His voice, when he acknowledged me, was grating. "Your highness."
I saw him, and for the first time, it was as though I stood outside myself. I saw the fierce pride and the anguished betrayal. I saw the fault-lines in his soul and where they lay, and how they could be exploited. There was a game to be played. He hated me, yes, but we were victims in common. I could play to that, speak cunning words, turn his hatred to a shared target. One whose justice was too harsh for his angry soul, whose mercy galled my unrestful one.
Ysandre, the Queen.
Or I could wound him with disdain, and earn his undying enmity, sealed and immaculate. There was power in that, too. Those whose hatreds are simple are easy to manipulate. He could become my creature, all unwitting.
I trembled at this knowledge. It was my mother's legacy, Kushiel's gift, and I did not want any part of it.
What I wanted was to make a friend of him.
It was not to be. That, too, I saw; and I was grateful to Phèdre for her warning.
"Here," I said, thrusting the deed forward. "I cannot undo what is done. I know only that this is right. Lombelon is yours."
Maslin grabbed the parchment and broke the seal. For a long moment, he read, lips moving silently. At last, his dark eyes met mine.
"Why?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Because I could."
It was not answer enough; it would never be answer enough. But it was all the answer I could afford him. Maslin shuddered, his dung-stained nails tightening on the deed. "Shall I bow and scrape in thanks, princeling?" he asked harshly. "Is that what you wish to see? Groveling gratitude, a sop for your miserable soul?"
Someone's breath hissed between their teeth, and I motioned my retainers to be still. I gazed at Maslin. "You do not know me," I said to him. "Do not presume that you do."
He looked away. "Nor you me," he muttered.
"Fair enough," I said evenly.
"What is it?" He looked back at me, scowling. "What do you want?"
I considered the question. "I want to be good."
This was an answer he understood. I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. His scowl eased and he nodded, half to himself, as though I had spoken his thoughts, thoughts no one else in the room save we two could know. "People make it hard to do," he said.
I thought about my mother who had borne me, the priest who had lied to me. I thought about the Carthaginian slavers, the Mahrkagir, the mocking, distrustful face of Barquiel L'Envers. And I thought, too, about Phèdre and Joscelin—and strangely, Sidonie, with her cool, disdainful words. "Some do," I said. "Not all."
"Most," said Maslin.
"Too many," I agreed.
What the others in the room made of our conversation, I cannot guess. But we understood one another, we traitors' sons. It was not friendship, but it would do. I put out my hand, and this time, Maslin clasped it. His grip was callused and strong.
"My thanks," he said. "I didn't mean…" He shrugged, wordless.
I nodded. "I know."
So it was done, and I was glad. We took
"Bring him," I said simply.
Jerome Bargot bowed. "As you will."
We lounged in the great room and waited while Maslin was summoned. The fire crackled. We grew warm and threw off our cloaks. Hugues brought out his wooden flute and played a simple, merry tune. A serving maid brought a plate of bread and meat and strong mustard, and Gilot caught her eye, grasping her hands and convincing her to dance a measure with him until she drew away, laughing and protesting.
It reminded me of Montrève, and I was smiling when Maslin arrived.
He brought with him a strong whiff of dung. I rose when he entered the great room. We took each other's measure at a glance. Hugues' flute fell silent. Firelight laid a ruddy crown on Maslin's pale hair. He clenched his fists, with half-moons of dirt under the crescents of his nails, and inclined his head. His voice, when he acknowledged me, was grating. "Your highness."
I saw him, and for the first time, it was as though I stood outside myself. I saw the fierce pride and the anguished betrayal. I saw the fault-lines in his soul and where they lay, and how they could be exploited. There was a game to be played. He hated me, yes, but we were victims in common. I could play to that, speak cunning words, turn his hatred to a shared target. One whose justice was too harsh for his angry soul, whose mercy galled my unrestful one.
Ysandre, the Queen.
Or I could wound him with disdain, and earn his undying enmity, sealed and immaculate. There was power in that, too. Those whose hatreds are simple are easy to manipulate. He could become my creature, all unwitting.
I trembled at this knowledge. It was my mother's legacy, Kushiel's gift, and I did not want any part of it.
What I wanted was to make a friend of him.
It was not to be. That, too, I saw; and I was grateful to Phèdre for her warning.
"Here," I said, thrusting the deed forward. "I cannot undo what is done. I know only that this is right. Lombelon is yours."
Maslin grabbed the parchment and broke the seal. For a long moment, he read, lips moving silently. At last, his dark eyes met mine.
"Why?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Because I could."
It was not answer enough; it would never be answer enough. But it was all the answer I could afford him. Maslin shuddered, his dung-stained nails tightening on the deed. "Shall I bow and scrape in thanks, princeling?" he asked harshly. "Is that what you wish to see? Groveling gratitude, a sop for your miserable soul?"
Someone's breath hissed between their teeth, and I motioned my retainers to be still. I gazed at Maslin. "You do not know me," I said to him. "Do not presume that you do."
He looked away. "Nor you me," he muttered.
"Fair enough," I said evenly.
"What is it?" He looked back at me, scowling. "What do you want?"
I considered the question. "I want to be good."
This was an answer he understood. I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. His scowl eased and he nodded, half to himself, as though I had spoken his thoughts, thoughts no one else in the room save we two could know. "People make it hard to do," he said.
I thought about my mother who had borne me, the priest who had lied to me. I thought about the Carthaginian slavers, the Mahrkagir, the mocking, distrustful face of Barquiel L'Envers. And I thought, too, about Phèdre and Joscelin—and strangely, Sidonie, with her cool, disdainful words. "Some do," I said. "Not all."
"Most," said Maslin.
"Too many," I agreed.
What the others in the room made of our conversation, I cannot guess. But we understood one another, we traitors' sons. It was not friendship, but it would do. I put out my hand, and this time, Maslin clasped it. His grip was callused and strong.
"My thanks," he said. "I didn't mean…" He shrugged, wordless.
I nodded. "I know."
So it was done, and I was glad. We took
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