A/N: According to Tammy, Marinine of Tasride was the twins' mother. In this story, Marinine is around sixteen when Duke (then Sir) Gareth and Alan are both in their early twenties. Italics indicate flashbacks to her time. ---------------
"Alan of Trebond, hm?" His voice was thin and nasal. He frowned as he opened the seal on Alanna's letter. "I trust you will do better here than your sire. He was always at his books." Pg 27, Alanna: The First Adventure The man actually grinned. "Don't put your foot in it any more than you already have, lad. I'm not here to be your nanny. And I'm not displeased that you and Myles are friends. It's good for you to have an older man to talk to. If your own father had any-" He stopped short. Alanna was surprised to see him blush faintly. "That was uncalled for. Forgive me, Alan
Pg 184, Alanna: The First Adventure
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Harps ply behind the tapestries. Violins shiver in slow-drawn ecstasy. It is a waltz.
Whispers, stifled giggles and painted fans screening painted faces snapping open. Young girls dip low in curtseys that smack of convent tutelage.
(Gamblers' smiles on the mammas' faces.)
Under jewel-toned hems, jewel-encrusted heels scratch marble. A bow and a broad hand to enclasp a corset-girdled waist. White gowns for white virgins, blue satin ribbons for bonny blue eyes. Light pools on pale silk, glows on maiden-pearls and maiden-smiles. The debutantes are so gauche that it is almost graceful.
They are like so many waterlilies, bobbing in a pond.
Her hair is red, like fire curling over scorched wood. Red like Trebondian banners flouting the cinerous skies over the Grimhold Mountains. "My sister, Your Grace - Lady Alanna of Trebond."
Her hair is copper, like newly-mainted coins. Copper like Tasride-dyed tunics, fresh-bought from the bazaar, and hung out to dry. "My niece, Sir Gareth - Lady Marinine of Tasride."
It is only when she rises from her curtsey that he notices that those limpid eyes are violet. "Lady Alanna," he says slowly, rolling the name over in his mouth. Alan-na. Wordplay. Distasteful. Sir Thom smiles with the benign arrogance of a court favourite.
The Earl of Tasride smiles with the craven servility of a man with many unmarried daughters and nieces in the presence of an eligible bachelor. Most eligible bachelor. Too much really for an undowered charity-case. Why do they even try? "A pleasure, Lord Thom. Milady?"
She looks up, the smile that is blossoming on her soft lips reflected in her timid eyes. Silver eyes flecked lilacs and pale golds. Like crystal in the sunlight.
His breath catches.
"May I have this dance?"
"With pleasure, Your Grace."
Amethyst studs twinkle on her bodice.
The melody swirled. Louder, faster. She was as graceful as any he'd challenged on the fencing court but feather-light in his arms. Mithros, he had never seen eyes like hers.
The pearl-stitched hem fans in a blurred circle around his feet. Clearly, King Roger has deemed it fit to enrich the coffers of his pet court-mage. "How do you find court, Lady Alanna?"
Green silk brushes against him. She exchanges a smile rippling with mockery with the girl. Chestnut curls and crimson lips - it is no wonder that she is partnered with the king. Gary will soon be composing poetry to the little beauty.
"Enchanting," she says, and the bright, untainted dreams of childhood peep out from those radiant eyes. "Everyone tells me the glamour will wear off in a ball or two and that gauche doesn't go far in Corus but-" Breathes. Exuberantly. "But I hope it'll last forever and ever! It's the most wonderful feeling."
"Yes," he says softly. "Yes it is."
"And how was the distinguished duke last night?" Delia drawls, patting rouge to her dimpled cheeks. "As... masterful as they say he is?" She's smirking. "Every dowager worth her salt has put a play on him these past twenty years, you know. It's a shame he's so devoted to the imperious duchess, though I'm sure the stablehands could tell us a different story..."
"And how was His Majesty?" Alanna drawls back. "He likes his women like his wine, they say - old, matured. His men though..." She trails off. Fits an amethyst earbob. A ball a day keeps the fat away.
"I'm sure you would know, darling," Delia puts in smoothly. "Your brother is quite close to His Majesty." Comrades' grins, rivals' smiles.
"Sir Gareth seemed quite taken with you."
She fingers frayed lace and sighs. Threads a needle.
"A very important man, my dear. What with the Naxen duchy, yes, and Lady Lianne being held so high in His Highness's esteem..."
"Yes Uncle." She mends the cuff with rapid, economical stitches. Ladies embroider. Poor relatives mend.
"A dalliance it might be, nothing more, he's a gay young lad as they all are... but if you play your cards well, yes... you're a clever girl, Marinine, you'll think of something."
"No, merely foresighted. Thanks be to Mithros that the role of ingenue suits me."
He can feel the calluses under the frail sheath of her lace mittens. "Whatever happened to your hands, my dear child?" he asks, though he thinks he knows.
"I am a hard rider, Your Grace."
"And a consummate archer and wrestler, your brother once told me. Words to the effect of, 'you oughtn't blame me, Your Grace, my sister was meant to be the boy and we must have been magicked in the womb.' Though that didn't get him out of punishment duty either."
She chortles. Momentarily, wistfulness clouds those calculating eyes. "Lady Delia of Eldorne and I shared the common fantasy of trying for our shields, though as I recall it, I had the distinct advantages over her of possessing a twin brother and an absentminded father. We did make it five miles from Trebond before our Guardsman - Coram Smythesson - frogmarched us back."
"Many girls nurture such fancies," he returns. "The life of a roving knight-errant is all romance if you're cross-stitching in a convent."
"Fond and foolish fancies," she agrees, casting her eyes down demurely. "We've much to be thankful for that they grow out of it and that hemming and harpischord practices still manage to churn out such charming ladies as Delia and I. Don't you agree, Your Grace?"
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know about that," he says. "I've never belonged to the Saren-tarred sect that believes in chaining daughters to nurseries, kitchens and parlors." Something washes over her face, brightens.
She is smiling. Not the childlike, beaming smile that glows on her when she looks at him, though. Her face is schooled into age-mellowed lines, courteous, sedate. Societally approved.
Ill-fitting on her face.
Alan of Trebond hands his partner to Gareth of Naxen. There is something more in his eyes than the drowsy indifference that had marked him out as a milksop in his page years. Clear, bright. Tender.
"Whatever did you and the wetrag talk about?" He demands and his tone makes her smile widen into something... catlike. More genuine, an expression fitted for those metal-grey eyes and that rust-red hair.
(Scrape the paint and you won't like what you'll find underneath.)
"He was quite diverting actually - talked about deciphering the Rylkaal Document. Poor dear, it seems there are few who care to listen to him and I can't understand why when-"
"He's an only son?" Gareth cuts in swiftly. "Trebond may be perilously close to Scanra but it has quite a mound of it's own. There's madness in the blood though, they say."
"That shouldn't be a problem for a fatherless charity-basket like me," Marinine says, mimicking his tone.
"I don't understand you, Milady," he says stiffly.
"Oh but I'm sure you do, Sir Gareth," she says, winking. "Look there's Lady Imelda of Queenscove - my, doesn't she look put out! The Imperious Imelda, she's made to be a duchess-" She smirks. "I'm merely Baroness material."
A mist of color blurred past. The forest branches shiver by the wind-borne war-whoops and shrieks of laughter. Gilded leaves drift, catch against wisps of grass. Sunlight shatters through the cracks.
"A hard rider, Milady?" he hears his son ask the girl. "You've quite left the other ladies behind."
Her sheer veil hangs askew, twigs and leaf-scraps caught in her disordered hair. "Let the ladies flock amongst themselves," he hears her say, breathless, laughing. "When it comes to the chase I am no lady."
She stood by the window. Light pooled at her feet, catching at the stray yellow flowers and purple leaves stitched on her white dress. White for chastity.
He is sick of white.
"Have a care for my honour, Sir Gareth," she said. Laughed. "It doesn't look well for a maiden to be seen alone in the company of a young gentleman."
He stepped out of the shadows. "Well we won't be seen then. Do you know why I called you here?" The words felt trite, undignified - like the words of a spurned suitor when he had never really courted her in earnest. A few dances, walks down the primrose path - really, there had been nothing between them. It had been most chaste.
It had been nothing.
She leaned against the windowframe. "Not being half as dimwitted as I play, of course," she said acerbically. "Nothing stays a secret in court, Gareth - your betrothal might be a family matter yet, but Imelda certainly hasn't wasted time proclaiming to all who care to listen in the Maidens' Chambers that she shall one day be the Duchess of Naxen. Sister-in-law to the Queen, bah."
She tugged at a lock of hair, her face contracted into lines of bitterness. She didn't meet his eyes. "You came to break the news gently to me and to assure me that you were quite, quite a gentleman who had never played fast and loose with my poor virginly feelings. And when I screamed like a shrew, blaspheming you to the seventh hell - as would any distraught girl cheated out of a brilliant catch - you'd manage to walk away with the honors of war. Well I stole a march on you in the matter of betrothals."
Tapped the glass with her ring. "Amethysts," she continued, wrinkling her nose. "Madness does run in the family."
"There were circumstances beyond my control," he snapped. "Our positions-" She nods sympathetically. It hurts. "Marinine-"
A bright, brittle smile flashed over her face. "You oughtn't make it sound so like a caress," she said dryly. "You're not making it easier for either of us."
"It?" he said, temper flaring. "There was no it and if you were foolish enough-"
"But I wasn't," she said. "I wasn't. Tell me, Gareth - were you?"
"You could do worse for yourself than the Trebond girl, lad," he tells Gary. "She's a pretty thing. What with that sizeable dower and Thom high in His Majesty's esteem-"
"Thick as thieves," Gary mutters.
He pauses, trying to hammer the message into the finkle-headed boy. "Princess Josiane has graced our court for a month now and Roger did raise the idea of having her wed married to a prominent Tortallan noble-"
"Since he obviously doesn't want the Copper Isles madness tainting his blood," Gary cuts in.
"-a duke would be most eligible. The Rittevons would not be averse to such an alliance."
Gary's eyebrows shoot up. "I'll consider it," he finally says.
"It's no use mooning over Lady Delia's riding gloves," he continues sonorously. "She's already promised to Lady Alanna's brother. His Majesty is gracious to his discarded mistresses." A ghost of a smile creeps over his face. "Let both the spurned lovers warm themselves at a bridal hearth."
Dear Gareth,
How are you? It's been years, but it doesn't feel that long does it? You've kept pace with the world - we received news of Gareth's birth along with that of the Prince - while I've floundered in this snowscape. I miss the blazing Tasride sun - I was always a southern girl and Trebond is foreign to me. I miss my girlhood, I miss court.
Dare I say it? Yes, I dare. I miss you.
"What are you reading, sweetheart?"
He shifts the letter. "Business, Imelda. Business."
"His Majesty's idea of the perfect bridal present happens to be an execution," Thom drawls. "Contemplate death while the idea of creating life is fresh on your mind from last night." She punches him and giggles when he pulls a face. "I'm glad you're married though," he says earnestly, fingering a fold of her violet silk gown. "I was sick of that everlasting white."
"White for chastity," she murmurs, eyes peeling the horizon. They linger distastefully on the gallows and the rabble congregated at the foot of it. "I hate how they make a holiday of an execution - it's sheer business and they oughtn't call it pleasure. Scum," she hisses, wrinkling her nose. "What are those unfortunates even up for?"
"Conspiracy," he tells her. "Quite a pretty trick with coded messages which I deciphered."
"His Majesty must have been delighted," she returns. "Is that why he chose to give you Delia as a trophy?"
He glances indifferently at the girl, dead-centre in a group of boisterous young noblemen. Gary perches on the edge of it, occassionally casting covert glances at his father and his bride. "I always thought I was being chastised by being given her - but she'll do, I suppose. I never would have thought to pick out a wife by myself."
"You ought to announce it soon and not let her gambol over the place like that," she scolds him gently. "Though I suppose when you do announce it the whole court will switch to mourning for a month or two. Well at least until that new beauty, Cythera of Elden, finds her bearings."
"Delia and you - good friends, aren't you?" She nods absently. "Fancy that - I never would have thought of it, you two being like the night and the day."
"We agree to disagree," she returns, smirking. Hesitantly she adds, "You're wrong about us being different, though, Thom. I like her. Sometimes. She'll be good for Trebond and she'll manage to pit her wits safely against yours, Thom." She turns again to the gallows. "Remember how we used to pass coded messages when we were little? You in the castle and me at the convent... we stopped around the time His Majesty came to court."
"Soon after I saved Prince Jonathan from the Sweating Sickness," he says. A light shrug. "I oughtn't have bothered seeing as he was ass enough to get himself killed at Persepolis."
She's smirking. "You don't fool me, brother dear," she murmurs. "You don't fool me."
Dearest Marinine,
As brought out in your letters, Alan seems absolutely charming - the ideal husband for a bluestocking. You were made for court games, dalliances in rose-gardens and wine-laced kisses in the dark. Do I have regrets? Yes, a few. No, more than a few.
I can see your smile.
Alan was down, during the Royal Congress. I managed to make his path cross mine several times - he told me how you miscarried last winter. You ought to have written and told me. Take care of yourself, sweetheart.
She smiled and tied the letter with a blue satin ribbon to a bundle of other letters, clipped from a ballgown which she would never need again.
(Don't think about the balls. Don't think about the kisses in the dark.)
Then she shut it into a carved rosewood box - a bridal gift from Uncle Thom, well-pleased at the fine (if not brilliant) match she'd made. She locked it, not knowing that miles away in Corus a desk-knight had done the same to her letters.
In spite of the endearments - which she dismissed, assuming that he had many mistresses - she would never know how much she meant to him.
Sunlight refracts on steel, streaming rainbows on fawn-colored brocade. Flaming hair drips on the jewelled hilt while her fingers work methodically with the polishing-cloth. "Isn't that his squire's job, lass?" he asks. Sits down next to her. "It certainly isn't the duty of a duchess to tend to her husband's sword."
She offers a clover-soft smile. "Oh I like being around weapons," she says amiably. "This is more in the way of a pleasure to me than an ordeal. I'm not even the duchess, Father," she says lightly. "That's Lady Imelda." She calls him Father but her mother-in-law is still only 'Lady Imelda'. Well, at least that's an improvement from 'Your Grace'.
"Imelda thaws slowly," he explains. "She's always been protective about Gary - quite naturally, he being our only son - and... your mother and I were rather close in the days of eld," he says dryly. "Perhaps she can't quite forgive you that."
She looks up, violet eyes wide, incredulous. His eyes speak volumes and a blush creeps into her cheeks, softens that hard, porcelain skin. "Oh," she mumbles, at a loss for those crisp words that come so naturally to her for the first time (in his recollection). "Oh."
Gareth,
I was remembering the old times, dredging up the old memories that keep me warm a'nights. Do you remember the first time you fenced, wearing my favor, and how distraught a great many of the girls were at Tasride snaring Naxen? Your mother brought Alan to my notice for the first time then - I suspected she felt threatened. Word-for-word this is how our conversation played out that day...
"My son wears your favor, Lady Marinine."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"He has never worn any colors apart from those of his sister. Until today." "Of course, you are unusually - or shall we say unnaturally? - complected. Striking at first sight. That gives you an edge. However in point of beauty-"
"I scrape through with mediocre. Certainly there can be no comparison between me and Lady Imelda."
"Ah yes, Imelda. What's the old adage? Queenscove, Naxen and the Minchis, the pillars of the Conte line. Tasride, I find, does not even feature in the Book of Glass. Or perhaps it does, but somewhere in the later pages? Somewhere ah, inconspicuous?"
"Your Grace is omniscent."
"Oh, but a mother must be, as I'm sure you'll come to appreciate when you have growing children of your own to manage-"
"Sir Gareth is a grown man."
"So he thinks, my dear, so he thinks. Let me direct your attention to that handsome young man. Sir Alan of Trebond - or should I say, Baron? He's an only son and Trebond is in the Book of Gold."
"He sounds most charming."
"Thank about it, I entreat you, sweet child. I keep my son's interests at heart but I really want the best for you. Really I do."
The afternoon sun blazes through the mullioned windows of Countess Cythera of Tirragen's drawing room. Pearls and pastry-colored teagowns shimmer in the summer heat.
"We do not see enough of you at court, sister dearest," Delia of Trebond says smoothly, over tinkling china cups and softly-drawled requests for the sugar-bowl. Her green eyes sparkle wickedly. "Nor," she says, emphasizing the words beyond respectability, "the distinguished duke either. Corus is bereft of it's jewels."
"My father-in-law has been relieved by Sir Alexander of the onerous duty of training master," she returns frostily, wondering if Delia hasn't cottoned on to the fact that they are in public or whether she's just playing. Never trust a bored coquette in the midst of a large assembly of women. "My husband is Prime Minister. His Grace is now free to pursue those activities which in youth were not permitted to him, and he finds quiet country living in Naxen better-suited for his health than Corus. It stinks these days, of debauchery."
"But why have you secluded yourself, Alanna dear?" Delia asks. "The country is no place for a charming young woman of society to bury herself in. Your husband would benefit from your counsel and close proximity." She favors her sister-in-law with a childlike smile and brimful-of-sugar eyes.
Oh, have you been sleeping with Gary to spite me? Alanna steps into the rhythm, sparring as comfortably with Delia as they had done in their schooldays. The troublesome little beauty who'd coquette with the hostlers if given half-a-chance and the sullen ragamuffin who knew more about the bow than the needle - they had been made for eachother as girls. "As the Tusaines say," she replies, "I am enceinte - a month or two along. I came to Corus to break the news personally to Gary."
Delia's eyes widen in genuine shock. "Thom didn't tell me," she says, pouting like a child.
"We wanted to keep the news a family matter," Alanna says dryly.
"Am I not family?"
Alanna smirks, shaking her head. "I hardly know to which family you and my precious nephew Roger belong to," she says. "He certainly wasn't born with the distinctive eyes that have marked generations of our line - though I suppose I ought to give credit seeing that his eyes aren't blue either. Or brown. Or grey. I know how sociable you are, dear sister."
Delia's eyes narrow into jade-colored slits. It is unbecoming. Alanna takes a dainty sip of tea. "So tell me, sister," Delia says. "When is the child due? Spring? Tell me, darling, will you be presenting Sir Gary with a son or a brother come spring?"
Alanna almost chokes on a seed cake, her eyes widening in comic contrast to Delia's narrowed ones. The young woman's smile is as creamy and self-satisfied as that of a cat who has slunk into a pantry. Then she manages to compose herself, schooling her face into a blank mask that would not have looked inappropriate on a Yamani's face. "You are unjust to the fair sex, Delia. It might be a sister."
Delia throws back her head and lets out a peal of merry laughter, so loud that from across the room, Duchess Josiane of Stone Mountain stares.
Darling,
I hear you are expecting a child in the spring. My congratulations - a child born in late April or May will have a good chance of survival, for the clime in Trebond at that time is pleasantly warm. I suppose you shall have only the village midwife? A pity, I'd rather you had a trained healer see to you. Imelda had a hard time with Gary even with her brother, Baird, in attendance. Would Alan rather have a son or is it all the same to him, whether his firstborn be male or female? And which do you prefer?
As for me, I wish you a daughter, for daughters are all that sons are not - gentle, dutiful, loveable. I wish you a daughter with your blazing hair. Train her to be like you and if she is half the woman you are, she shall be much-blessed.
Your feet in the full-grown grasses,
Moved soft as a soft wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With a face made out of a rose.
I am growing quite sentimental, am I not? No matter, love excuses all.
White pearblossoms twirl among the jewel-bright quinces, crab-apple blossoms blush rosy-pink, almost lost amidst the masses of dusk-green foliage. She sits, enthroned in state, amidst magnolias, carved in stone, and the heather that blooms at her feet like a living hem for her gown. It is the only fitting setting he can think of her - a Queen of the May, presiding over his garden.
"Marianne of Naxen," Thom rolls the name over his tongue and smiles pleasantly as he peers into his niece's violet eyes. "For our mother, Marinine, and for Queen Lianne?" He hands the baby to Duke Gareth who nods, beaming like a doting father. He lounges next to his sister, watching his wife and brother-in-law teach little Roger of Trebond to walk in the arbour.
Alanna pelts him with crab-apple blossoms. "We had news from Corus that-" she begins, excitement coloring her cheeks with a brightness that not even rouge cannot bring.
Thom chuckles quietly, playing with a fold of her gown. He is thinking of the little girl in breeches, who'd race pell-mell through the village, her long hair flying like a red flag behind her. There is no outward trace of that girl in the straight-backed, fashionably-gowned and -coiffured noblewoman before him but within she is the same. "I knew that would excite you," he says. "His Majesty's new mandate is causing whirlpools in court - your good husband was among those most violently opposed to the new decree, but-"
"What His Majesty wants His Majesty gets," the duke says quietly, sitting down on Alanna's other side. He rocks the baby, cooing a lullaby low enough that only the mother will hear, thinking of another Naxen girl, her hair as dark as Marianne's, who he'd sung to sleep in years gone-by. Alanna smiles at him, slipping her hand into his.
Thom continues as though he has noticed nothing. A devoted brother, to be sure. "Of course - King Roger's fortitude and foresightedness in the face of resistance is most admirable. The army is short of men and in the days of yore, our hallucinating women fought side-by-side with the men. His Majesty is determined not to let the sun set on the glorious days of the Lady Knights." He grins as his sister slips her other hand into his. "The edict shall be set in stone soon - even if our exemplary Prime Minister wishes to boycott it in protest - though I doubt many noble families will be willing to have their daughters shift to court before a stint at the convent."
"She's asleep," the duke murmurs, handing the girl to Alanna.
Alanna takes her daughter. "We shall see about that," she says to Thom, "We shall see." She rises. A breeze, redolent with the fragrance of crushed mint, ruffles her hair.
A/N: I've signed up for the Original Ficathon Contest on LJ! I'll publish my story (whatever that turns out to be) on my fictionpress account - Anarchist Tuberose. Any ideas for a story - I have few right now.
Rating: Any
Things Wanted: Dark humor. Complex characters, particularly villains, a kickass villain. Strong female characters, especially in traditional male roles. Warped creativity. Slapstick comedy. And, if inclined for a romance, an unlikely pairing.
Things NOT Wanted: Storylines where romance is the main objective/plot line, though I don't mind it on the side. Supernatural/fantasy critters (vampires, werewolves, evil elves, etc.) portrayed in the traditional way (I heartily encourage you to go crazy). Sex scenes.
Quotes: -You can swim all day in the Sea of Knowledge and still come out completely dry. Most people do.
-The ancient (Insert name) built their greatest masterpieces of architecture for wild beasts to fight in.
-I sit on a man's back, choking him, and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by any means possible, except getting off his back.