“I don’t need ceremonies for respect,” snapped Sandry, growing cross. Her cheeks were red again as they passed between the outlying groups of villagers; she could feel it like banners telling the world she wanted to crawl under a rock. As she rode by, the men bowed and the women curtsied, keeping their eyes down. “And it’s not me they should be bowing to,” she insisted quietly, feeling like the world’s biggest lie. “It’s my cousin here. He’s the one who works for their good. Do they do this for you?” she demanded of Ambros.
“They bow, if they’re about when I pass, but I’m not the clehame,” Ambros told her, keeping his voice low so the villagers would not hear. “You don’t understand, Cousin. We have a way of life in Namorn. The commoners tend the land, the artisans make things, the merchants sell them, and the nobles fight and govern. Everyone knows his place. We know the rules that reinforce those places. These are your lands; these people are your servants. If you try to change the rituals for the way in which we live, you undermine all order, not just your small corner of it.”
“He’s right,” said Fin. “Trust me, if they didn’t pay you proper respect—”
Rizu cut him off. “Lady Sandry, custom isn’t just enforced by the landholders. Rebellion in one village is seen as a threat to all nobility. They would have imperial lawkeepers here in a few days, and then they’d pay with one life in ten.”
“On my own lands?” whispered Sandry, appalled.
“Lords have been ill, or slow in mind, or absent,” Ambros replied, his voice soft. “Order must be kept.”
“I can’t tell them not to do that again?” Sandry wanted to know.
“Only if you want to weed the cabbage patch,” joked Fin. Caidlene poked him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Well, that’s what we call ’em at home,” the young nobleman protested. “Cabbage heads. All rooted in dirt, without a noble thought anywhere.”
Weed the cabbage patch, thought Sandry, horrified. Kill peasants.
She looked at the villagers, trying to glimpse their faces. It took her a few moments to realize that while the rain was falling heavily, the people on the ground were not getting wetter. She looked up. The space covered by Tris’s magical umbrella had spread. It was so big, she couldn’t see the edges, only the flow of water overhead, as if the village were covered by a sheet of glass. She’s still reading, thought Sandry, looking back at Tris. She can hold off all this rain, and still keep reading.
A smile twitched the corners of Sandry’s mouth. She thought, Somebody’s been practicing.
They crossed the river, passed through the fringe of houses on the far side, then began the climb up the hill to the castle. Halfway up, they heard the rattle of a great chain. The portcullis that covered the open gate was being raised. The drawbridge was already down, bridging a moat too wide for a horse to jump. On top of the wall, men-at-arms in mail and helmets stood at every notch, watching her. One of them, standing directly over the gate, raised a trumpet to his lips and blew it. As Sandry and Ambros rode first over the drawbridge, golden notes rang out in the sodden air.
Inside they found the outer bailey, where many of the industries that supported the castle household were placed. Everywhere men and women dropped what they did to line up along the curved road that led to the gate to the inner bailey. As their group passed, they bowed or curtsied.
Uncle Vedris would never allow them to waste time at work on this nonsense, Sandry thought, outraged, though she hid her true feelings to nod and smile at those who lined the road. He’d jump on you quick enough if he thought you were disrespectful, but he didn’t need all this, this stupid ceremony to prove it. I’m so glad he can’t see me now.
As they clattered through the inner gate, Sandry’s jaws began to hurt. She was actually grinding her teeth in frustration. With an effort she made herself relax, working her jaw to loosen the tight muscles. She glanced back at the others and saw something that made her grin. Little Chime sat on Tris’s saddle horn, wings unfurled, chin held high. The glass dragon obviously thought all of this celebration was for her.
And so it is, Sandry thought with a grin. It’s not for me—it’s for her.
With that idea in mind, she was able to smile more naturally at the men-at-arms who waited by the inner gate, and to nod at the groups of people who stood inside, in the court in front of the main castle. Her smile widened as four little girls, their ages ranging from five to twelve, broke free of the servants to race toward Ambros, shrieking, “Papa! Papa!”
He laughed and dismounted, kneeling in the mud so he could hug all four at once. “You’d think I’d been gone for years instead of a few days,” he chided, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “What is your cousin supposed to think of such hoydens?”
Sandry dismounted before someone could help her to do it. “She thinks they are delightful,” she said, walking over to stand beside Ambros. “She thinks their father is blessed to have such lovely girls.”
“Their father is,” said Ambros, getting to his feet. “Girls, this is your cousin, Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren.”
Reminded of their manners, the girls all curtsied to Sandry. The one who looked to be about ten thrust a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers at Sandry. “I picked them myself,” she said.
“And I thank you,” Sandry replied, accepting them. “I love to get flowers after a long ride.”