Free The Keeper of the Mist by Rachel Neumeier

eyebrows, and thought that might indicate something like a flicker of humor.
    But the next second, that tiny quirk of eyebrows and that hint of humor were both gone.
    None of her half brothers seemed even to have noticed the Timekeeper. Brann set his wineglass aside on a table where dozens of others stood waiting, along with a decanter of wine. His air of disdain had become even more marked. He turned his shoulder to Lucas and said to Keri, his tone as chilly as his manner, “Our youngest brother is a fool who somehow manages to believe that his comic manner is endearing, but one bit of his foolery at least is accurate. We are all endlessly grateful it wasn’t him.”
    “See?” said Lucas, in a didn’t-I-tell-you? tone of voice.
    “Allow me to welcome you to your House, young sister, and offer you every felicitation on your startling rise,” Brann said smoothly to Keri, ignoring his younger brother entirely. He extended his hand to Keri and, when she took it warily, bowed neatly over hers. But his eyes were cold, and she thought that although everyone might genuinely be glad the succession hadn’t come to Lucas, Brann, at least, was furious it hadn’t come to him. Which, of course, she had known he would be. But she was positive now that her half brothers hadn’t yet heard about the foreigners. She suspected that all three of them must have waited in seclusion for this meeting. Because it was the proper thing, perhaps, and, unlike her, they had been raised to know what was proper. Or maybe they had all been in such vile tempers since being passed over that no one had dared tell them about the Bear soldiers. Or possibly the whole House was so absorbed in its own affairs that hardly anyone had heard anything yet.
    It seemed just as well. Keri thought her half brothers were plenty to deal with, without adding in a whole company of Bear soldiers on top.
    Brann, oldest of Lord Dorric’s sons, was in his early thirties. He was…
polished,
was the closest Keri could come. He dressed and moved and spoke with elegance, but it was a restrained elegance, not the foppish vanity some wealthy young men affected. His formal coat, black embroidered with pewter gray and touches of violet, had a high, stiff collar, burnished brass buttons all down the front, and flaring cuffs turned back to show the violet lining. His soft-soled house boots, not meant to touch even the cleanest raked gravel or cobbles, had the same violet embroidery and brass buttons running up the sides.
    But Brann would, Keri thought, manage something of the same polished elegance even if he were wearing exactly the sort of rough farm clothing that, say, Cort did. It was part of who he was, part of what he’d inherited from his mother, eldest daughter and heir of one of the wealthiest men of the town, who had brought up her son to appreciate his special inheritance. It was why so many people, especially wealthy townspeople, had hoped he would take his father’s place as Lord of Nimmira. A man with class, they thought, a man with style; he got on with everyone, or everyone who mattered, and he always knew how to turn a nice phrase: he must surely have the makings of a fine Lord.
    Keri’s mother had disliked Brann, however, and although Keri had not known exactly why, she had been willing to disapprove of her oldest half brother for her mother’s sake. But she’d always believed he would probably be Lord after their common father. She’d thought Brann’s only real competition would come from Domeric.
    Domeric was not at all like his older brother. He was built like an ox, that was one thing. Then he had a face that looked as though it had been hacked out of an oak slab with a hatchet, shoulders so wide he had to turn sideways to get through narrower doorways, and a twisted smile that implied a threat even when he was in a good mood. His coats had to be specially made by a tailor—Tassel, who knew such things, had once mentioned this to Keri—and he always