The manor house wasn't quite what Dalliance had pictured from the chapbooks. But then, it was older, back from when the firstborn claimed the land, when the river—rather than being part of the heartland—had been part of the frontier. And the overlooking ridge upon which the tower stood had been an important landmark and bastion.
The manor was stone, three stories tall, built on the overlarge scale of a building which might, in extremity, be required to host not just people but also livestock, though modern decor seemed decidedly agnostic of this fact. The doors to the manor house were large and iron-reinforced. The big drop-bar for holding it closed was as thick around as Dalliance's head and likewise shod with iron.
There were three tables: one on a raised platform, a dais; one perpendicular to that, running along the south wall; and one running along the north. And in the middle, a dance floor and iron braziers filled with glowing coals, above which the air danced and sparks flickered. And then on the second floor, a wraparound gallery overlooked the dance floor. The third floor, he thought, must be the private chambers, or perhaps it connected to that archery tower. In any case, you couldn't see it.
In the chapbooks, there would have been couples dancing, twirling on the floor. In reality, there were just two people. A giant, brawny man whose face had given rise to every feature on Sterling’s face, as if the mother had been merely the vessel for passing along this man’s continuing bloodline. Sir Vigilance Worth stepped forward to greet his son. Beside him, a blond man Dalliance recognized on sight: the court wizard, who doubled as imperial auditor and had been by the Rather farm on occasion. But what stuck out in Dalliance's mind at this point was that the last time he’d seen the man, he’d been holding Dalliance's mother. With any luck, he'd also hit him with a meatball.
"Welcome to Worth Hall," boomed the [Knight], arms held out expansively. Heavy, those arms, corded with muscle. The only man Dalliance could be certain would absolutely best his father in physical confrontation. The premier warrior of the region.
And his spell-slinger. Parsimony had a reputation of his own—womanizers generally do—but was considered capable, as healer and magical artillery. Dalliance suspected his father was more dangerous.
The pride in Vigilance's greeting fell off his face as he saw the gurney borne by Prosperity and Knot. Charity's skin was pale, a stark contrast to the rich plum color of drying blood, which caked her hair to her collar and pooled in the hollows of her neck where she lay, face up on the stretcher.
"Parsimony," commanded the [Knight], "attend to this at once."
The wizard was already in motion, his hands outstretched with magics similar to those the group had become so used to seeing wielded by Circe. Diagnostics.
"You have lost a lot of blood," the man said. He had a pleasant tenor, “but there was no hurt too grave for healing here, thank the luck. So, that's the good. The bad is, I am going to have to heal this all at once."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"It's very dirty," he said, picking his words as if trying not to be disdainful of their simplicity. "I could close it and let the underlying tissue heal, but a poison rot would set in your blood. You'd have a fever, and then you might die. Instead, I shall completely restore you. But as all things come with a price, so does this. Regeneration leaves a scar, I'm afraid. And choosing between your continued life and health and your perfect beauty, we will have to side with the former."
She took the blow with grace.
"What is she going to look like?" asked Earnest. "Like, really a scar?"
The magician said, "A scar can take several forms, as you all will know. But this being a scalp injury in the primary, I believe it is likely that she will have some discoloration or change in texture as the hair grows back from the regenerated tissue. This is in all ways preferable to polluted blood."
"Just do it," said the [Knight].
The [Wizard] looked briefly mutinous but complied with alacrity. There was a flash, the smell of ozone, and it was done.
Hairless, nearly unblemished skin—just a seam, running up her jaw and into her hairline. A pale new patch of scalp, barren of hair.
"It will be tender for a time," Parsimony said, already sounding bored now that the spell was complete. "The hair that regrows from that spot . . . it will likely be without color. White."
A white streak. Dalliance looked at Charity's pale, exhausted face and imagined it. A slash of stark white against her jet-black hair.
"Thank you," Charity whispered, her voice weak but steady.
Sir Vigilance Worth let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. "Well done, lad," he said, clapping a heavy hand on Sterling's shoulder. "You brought your people home."
Parsimony Pleasant, his duty done and his boredom evident, wandered off toward the great hall, likely in search of a drink.
Sir Vigilance Worth turned his attention back to the exhausted children. "Servants!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the stone entryway. "Bring food and drink for our victors. They must be starving."
As servants hurried to obey, a woman began to descend the grand central staircase. She moved with a liquid grace, and she wore a gown of a design Dalliance had never seen before, not even in the most fanciful chapbooks. It was white and form-fitting, with golden bangles holding close-fitting sleeves that ended in elegant points flowing over the backs of her pale hands. Hands that had never known a moment of work, he thought, noticing the perfectly painted nails on each bejeweled finger. A soft cloth collar flowed up her slender neck, meeting a close-fitting collar of gold. Her hair was constrained within some kind of veil, and a circlet of gold sat atop it all. A golden, knotted girdle, describing a Y-shape across her waist, completed the ensemble.
He realized he was staring when Effluvia came up next to him and knocked him sharply with her elbow. On his other side, he heard Charity whisper in a tone of pure, academic awe.
“Do you see that? That’s a Merere. An original.”
"Exquisite," Effluvia agreed, her voice holding a rare note of genuine admiration.
Dalliance's confusion must have shown on his face.
"It's older than this castle," Effluvia explained, her eyes still fixed on the gown.
Integrity Worth swept onto the scene with impeccable poise, one hand ghosting over the arm and shoulder of her husband as she took her place at his side. There could be no mistaking whose hall this was.
Sterling walked over stiffly, hip clearly still pained, and bowed formally to his parents. His dad’s hand caught his shoulder and nearly pulled him off his feet into a crushing hug. His mother merely looked satisfied.
“Mother. Father. My classmates—without whom I would have died to the raven. Charity, of House Troubles. Effluvia, of House Early. And Dalliance, son of Cadence Rather.”
Dalliance felt eyes on him from the table, and his ears burned. Parsimony’s eyes were on him, vacant of emotion. Weighing him.
Earnest waved. “And I’m Earnest Verity, You have my thanks for your healing and hospitality.” He performed a perfect courtly bow, but ruined it by winking at Dalliance once it was complete.
That was a twinkle in Lady Worth’s eye, Dalliance was sure of it.
“Then you have our gratitude,” she said. Her voice was a rich alto, and each syllable was crisp as ironed linen. “Come and rest your weary bodies, and partake of my husband’s board. It is late: do not concern yourselves with the roads back. You shall sleep here tonight.”
Dalliance realized his face had tightened in worry.
“I sent out runners,” said Sir Vigilance, his sharp eyes missing nothing. “Nobody’s going to be up worrying about you. Rest easy. Sit, sit.”
The bench was a welcome change from horseback or standing. Dalliance pulled a short thorn from the side of his shoe—he’d thought he was just itchy. Using this as a pretext, he glanced subtly up to see if anybody was watching—and caught Charity’s eyes. He felt the flush go to his face, too.
“Three hunts down,” declaimed the [Knight], slapping his son’s back to punctuate his jubilation. Dalliance suppressed a wince. “And by the third we have no losses. You’re learning. You’re leading.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Servants began to carry the food out. Big pots of steaming stew, loaves of fresh bread, and jars of pickled vegetables. His mouth was watering.
“Keep it up,” Sir Vigilance suggested, his gaze sweeping over all of them. “The Empire needs all its heroes.”
They dug in with a will, filling wooden bowls to the brim with chunky carrot stew and steaming leeks. The drinks were water with the merest touch of mead, a sweetly bitter note like honey and herbs.
Focusing on the food helped him center himself again. The embarrassment was unaccustomed, and unwelcome.
A massive hand clapped down on Servility’s shoulder to Dalliance’s right. “Immaculate. I’ve heard about you. [Outrider], at your age. I’d meant to send a note by, but as you’re here: upon reaching your tier, you’ll find [Squire] among your options. Choose it, and squire for me. A man who saves his family deserves no less.”
Up on the dais, the Lady Worth ate the same fare as they did, with tiny bites and dexterous management of fork and knife. Dalliance wondered if he was even capable.
"Stare less," suggested Charity. "Sterling's going to get an ulcer."
Sterling was, in fact, looking at him.
"Every single thing she does is on purpose," Dalliance tried to explain, his own voice a near-whisper.
"Not that she's bad looking," said Earnest from across the table, himself quietly. "I'm sure Dalliance hasn't had many encounters with ladies of refinement and dignity, is all."
Effluvia glanced over at him sharply.
"I said what I said. Dignity." He mimed climbing up someone’s back.
Charity choked on her food.
Effluvia rolled her eyes and calmly shredded a hunk of bread into her stew. Her fork flickered down into it, taking morsels at a time, and Dalliance realized she also had excellent table manners. He looked at his own work-roughened hands and the food in them, and felt a pang of shame.
The fork felt wrong in his fingers, but he’d give it a go.
“What did you mean about my mother?” asked Sterling. His voice was low, but it was clear he hadn’t been sure if that was a compliment or not, and wasn’t yet decided upon being angry.
“I mean,” said Dalliance, spearing a bit of carrot and noticing that the soup sloshed up to the edge of the bowl, “that she is deliberate. Thinking. You, say, you might wake up in the morning and put on a shirt, just like Earnest does. Trousers one hole at a time. But you probably look down at yourself afterwards to check if it’s inside out or not.”
Earnest’s pants had been inside out all day, and Dalliance had been saving that one for use in any case.
“She’s thinking about not spilling her stew so she doesn’t ruin her dress—”
“—when it’s that fancy you might even call it a gown,” suggested Charity, but her eyes hadn’t left him yet. He had an audience.
“—gown. So she takes little tiny bites, but a lot of them, and that could drip, so she tore up her bread and soaked up the stuff that drips. Like Effie here, also a lady,” he said graciously.
He received a nod, and a second pair of watchful eyes.
“She sprinkled salt on it—”
“—why are you watching my mother that closely?” asked Sterling. His voice now had a pleading note to it. The master and lady of the hall, on the dais, laughed at something unrelated, and his glance over at them had vulnerability all over it.
“—because it’s all a performance,” said Dalliance, “and she’s good at it, and it’s neat! You stop and watch jugglers.”
It was like he’d hit the bigger boy between the eyes. He could see the thoughts scrambling in real time. He compared my mother to a juggler?!
“Anyway I’m sorry if my manners have been offensive,” he told Charity, and then flicked his eyes to Effie to include her. “Us farm boys barely got as far as ‘wash the bugs off’ growing up.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Earnest. His voice sounded hurt. “My ma makes me food and taught me my manners, and the bugs are the best part.”
Nobody took him up on his humor, and the sounds of eating at the table were overwhelmed by the sudden booming laughter from the head table as the master of the hall rocked backwards from Pleasant, who’d said something too quietly to catch.
Dalliance decided he liked using a fork: it was better than the knife tip, anyway, because you didn’t need to be as careful.
“I hadn’t ever thought about it,” said Effluvia, “But you likely don’t practice with forks often, do you?”
“Dinner comes in a bowl, with a spoon, or on a plate. The rule is: prosperous, worthy people put out hearty food, and plenty of it. That’s where the . . . performance is. Cornbread, a whole cake of it, every night.”
“I like cornbread,” said Knot from further down the table. “Don’t see what’s wrong with cornbread.”
“Nobody said anything about your ma’s cornbread,” Servility said shortly. His bowl was empty already. The soon-to-be-squire was eating enough for four people, and Dalliance could only speculate where he was finding room for it all.
Sterling, meanwhile, had apparently decided what he thought about it all: “You think she’s faking it?”
“Sterling, you do put your trousers on one leg at a time just like everybody else,” said Earnest, consideringly. “Totally awesome sword or not. And she has a heirloom dress, and wore it for a reason. To be seen with that dress. Yeah it’s intentional, but nobody’s saying she isn’t sophisticated.”
“But if she’d been sophisticated by herself in the kitchens it wouldn’t have impressed Dalliance nearly as much,” Charity concluded.
Charity’s eyes lingered on the the high table for a while longer. By the time she re-engaged with the rest of them, the topic shifted to speculation as to the lodgings.
“Da says the Citadel is drafty,” Dalliance commented. “He said that stone holds are cold and full of people who don't know it, but would gladly trade places for our farms, with our warmth and privacy.”
“And do you believe him?” asked Sterling, gesturing around at the great hall.
“I’d invite you over to compare,” Dalliance said, “but I think I’d give Ma a heart attack from the stress of it.”
“It’s not like I’ve never seen a farm,” Sterling said dismissively.
“Sure,” Dalliance said amenably. “And we haven’t seen your bedroom.”
“I don’t have a ‘bedroom’,” Sterling replied, saying the word like it was unfamiliar.
Dalliance stopped, surprised. “I thought this was a castle.”
Now Sterling was beginning to look defensive. “If you’d rather sleep in the stables—” he began.
“No, no,” Earnest cut in quickly. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding. He reads a lot of chapbooks.” He then pivoted on the spot. “Actually, I did wonder why you get your own room. I never got one. I have to climb up to the attic if I need peace and quiet to read my chapbooks.”
“Da doesn’t like noise,” Dalliance said defensively, “and having my own space is ‘valuable life experience’.” He made finger quotes around the last words.
“Twelve years old and already used to living on your own,” said Effluvia. Her tone was neutral, and he couldn’t decipher the opinion behind it. “While I feel satisfaction in successfully doing my own hair up without aid.”
“The Rathers are sterner stuff,” Sterling said, on somewhat firmer ground now. “Father was on the Wall with them when he proved his merit and was knighted for it. ‘Absolute monsters,’ he called them.”
Dalliance gave a brittle smile.
"Hang on," said Servility, his brow furrowed in concentration. "No room . . . so it’s barracks style, then? Do we have two at least, or are you asking me to sleep in a room with women? My mother . . . ."
"Oh, hush. Nobody’s going to question your propriety when you’re under this roof," said Effluvia dismissively. "I’m sure there’s more you're not taking into account."
In that, Effluvia was both right and wrong.
The second floor, once one passed the gallery, opened up into a broad, square room full of beds. Beds, and hanging sheets of homespun and burlap, with tasteful tapestries on the walls and candles on nightstands. The largest bed could only have been the Knight’s, and its partitions took up about a third of the room—but still, this would be sixty or so people in one room.
Dalliance hoped none of them snored.
Pallets were laid out for them, burlap, layered, over straw. It wasn’t quite as nice as Dalliance’s bed at home—someone had neglected to plait the straw during stuffing. But it was clean. ‘Boys on this side, heads to the North’, they were told. ‘Girls on this side, heads to the South’.
Dalliance was very much aware of Charity’s head to his left, upside-down from his perspective, as he lay down. Sleeping fully clothed wasn’t something he was used to—not that he slept naked, Topaz would never allow that, but still he found himself tossing and turning and scrubbing one ankle on the other to dislodge the persistent itches of road dust from his heels.
Murmurings, soft voices, filled the hall as candles were doused, each sending up its little plume of waxy smoke, and barriers raised. Soon all was dark, with the soft sounds of conversation, and the occasional snore, a susurrus like wind in the wheat.
He rolled over onto his side. She was looking at him: eyes pale in the light, lazily half-lidded, met his from beneath a mound of tumbled curls. She looked exhausted.
It was strange, her being so nearby.
“Good night Charity,” he said, not sure even to himself why she, out of everyone, merited an extra goodnight.
He could see her smile in the dimness as she answered him back, though.
The soft sounds of her nearby breathing consuming his thoughts were the last thing he remembered that night.
We should bring girdles back.