Law of the Broken Earth(93)

“I will leave you here,” said the guardsman, speaking to Mienthe. “I will tell the chamberlain. I will be very clear. I think the Arobern will send for you quickly, but I will tell them to send tea. You will wait? This is acceptable?”

“Yes,” said Mienthe, wondering what he would say or do if she said No. She said helplessly, “But my hair—” and stopped, blushing in embarrassed confusion.

The corners of the guardsman’s mouth twitched uncontrollably upward before he tamped his lips out straight again. He said very firmly, “The King of Casmantium is accustomed to receive urgent news from couriers and agents. Honored lady.”

“Yes,” Mienthe said, though not with nearly the firmness the man had managed. She told herself it was perfectly true. The guardsman bowed, rather more deeply than she had expected, and went out. None of the guardsmen stayed in the room with them, though she was not at all surprised to see two of them stop outside the door—there was only one door—with a patient attitude that suggested they might be there for some time.

“Your hair looks perfectly charming,” Tan told her, without the hint of a smile, after the door had closed. “There’s a tiny bit of ash on your chin, just—” He brushed his thumb across his own chin.

Mienthe scrubbed her face vigorously with her sleeve, sighed, and looked around. At least there were chairs, nice ones with thick cushions. She thought hot tea sounded wonderful, especially if it came with cakes or sweet rolls, and she thought even more strongly that Tan should sit down. She sank into the nearest chair herself, by way of example, and said, “I suppose the Arobern really is here.”

“Yes,” agreed Tan. “For a brief time, I was afraid our friends there might be taking us somewhere other than to the king, but now I rather suspect they are royal guardsmen and not merely local men who prefer soldiering to farming.” He lowered himself slowly into a chair, not grimacing at all, and carefully stretched his leg out before him.

Mienthe did not ask about his knee, since the way he moved told her everything she needed to know. Anyway, she had some hope he would be able to rest it properly now. She asked instead, “You do intend to tell the king who you are, don’t you? If he will see us, I mean? Because I don’t know how to explain everything without explaining that.” She considered for a moment and added, “I don’t know how to explain anything without explaining that.”

“If the Arobern actually sends for us, I suppose he must have the entire wretched story from top to toe,” Tan said, not as if the prospect pleased him. He tilted his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and let his breath out, slowly.

“I hadn’t known—” Mienthe began worriedly, and stopped.

“I had no difficulty until I tried walking on it,” Tan said, not opening his eyes. “I’m sure it will soon be better. You will do me the favor of not mentioning the problem to anyone.”

“No, of course I won’t,” Mienthe promised, though she couldn’t decide whether this request—or command—was based on any practical consideration or merely on Tan’s habitual unwillingness to let anybody know the truth about anything.

There was a sound at the door, and she turned, thinking of the promised tea. But the sound did not presage a tray-bearing servant, but rather an elegant man in lavender and gray who bowed his head briefly to Mienthe and said, in smooth, perfect Terheien, “The Lord King Brechen Glansent Arobern is pleased to grant you audience, esteemed lady, and you, sir, if you will please accompany me.”


The King of Casmantium looked very much as Mienthe had expected.

Bertaud had never spoken to her—not even to her—of the summer of the griffins, nor of his months in Casmantium that had followed. Mienthe had clearly understood, as so few people seemed to, that whether he had achieved some sort of triumph or not, whether or not he was honored for whatever he had done, her cousin had suffered somehow in that year and did not like to think of that time.

She had once believed, with a child’s natural romanticism, that he had probably fallen in love with a Casmantian woman and she had broken his heart. Later, it had occurred to her that this was, perhaps, a simplistic explanation. Also, she had come to understand that her cousin’s grief, whatever its source, was in some way deeper—no, not deeper, that wasn’t fair. But then perhaps somehow broader than the grief that afflicted men who were merely unlucky with a woman. Though this assessment was based largely on the lovesick and forlorn men who trailed behind her maid Karin like a line of goslings piping piteously behind a swan—well, that was a silly image, but anyway, perhaps comparing Bertaud to her maid’s hopeless collection of would-be lovers wasn’t quite fair.