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Authors: Jacqueline Carey
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the Bhodistani manner.
With a giggle, she returned the bow, and then sat back down onher little chair, arranging her hands in a contemplative
mudra
. “See! I remember.”
“So you do!” I clapped. “Very well done, your highness.”
The nursemaid Nathalie escorted me to the door, every line of her body expressing disapproval. “Do you imagine his majesty will be pleased to hear you’re teaching the child heathen prayers, and now setting strange foreigners to study with her?” she asked in a low voice.
“I imagine he’ll be pleased to know his royal daughter is learning about other cultures,” I said evenly. “Ancient, venerable cultures. And I would thank you not to speak of my husband as a strange foreigner.”
“It’s unsuitable!” Her face hardened. “He made a jest about reading texts from the Temple of Naamah in her very presence!”
“That was ill advised,” I agreed. “But it was a jest the child is too young to grasp. I’ll speak to him about it.”
It didn’t placate her. With a look of unmitigated disgust, she flung the nursery door open, startling a young page in House Courcel’s blue livery, who was lounging in the hallway.
“Lady Moirin!” He sketched a hasty bow as I exited the nursery. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. His majesty wishes to see you.”
“By all means,” I agreed. Nathalie sniffed and closed the door firmly behind me. Eyeing the closed door, I hoped very much that the King’s summons boded good rather than ill.
King Daniel de la Courcel was in the Hall of Portraits. Approaching, I would have expected to find him contemplating Jehanne’s portrait, or the portrait of his first wife, Seraphine, whom he had also loved deeply. To my surprise, I was wrong. The page coughed discreetly to announce our arrival, and the King shifted slightly to acknowledge it. For several minutes, we waited in silence, not wishing to intrude on his reverie.
At length, he turned. “Thank you, Richard. You may go.” The page bowed and took his leave. “Do you know who she is?” his majesty asked me, indicating the portrait of a beautiful dark-haired womanwith strong brows, candid blue eyes, and a mouth that promised firmness and compassion alike.
“Aye, my lord,” I said. Prince Thierry had taken me to see the Hall of Portraits on my first visit to the Palace. “Anielle de la Courcel. She would have been your grandmother, yes?”
“Yes.” Daniel touched the gilded frame with reverent fingers. “She was the last great ruler Terre d’Ange has known. Did you know they called her reign the Years of Joy?” His mouth twisted. “I wonder what they will call
mine
.”
I said nothing.
“You’re no courtier to feed me smooth lies,” he observed. “Nor a false friend to give me words of false comfort. I appreciate it.”
“Your majesty—”
King Daniel raised one hand to silence me. “I meant my words. Moirin, there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you in private. Come, we’ll speak in my study.”
I inclined my head. “Of course, my lord.”
As I followed him, I couldn’t help but hesitate in front of Jehanne’s portrait, newly hung since last I had visited the Hall of Portraits. The King paused, his expression pained. “That was done the first year of our marriage,” he said quietly. “She sat for it in the costume she wore for the Longest Night.”
I gazed at it without speaking. It was beautiful, of course—it was Jehanne. The artist had done a good job of capturing the sparkle of her eyes, the translucence of her skin. Her pale hair was piled in a coronet, and she wore a high collar of delicate silver filigree from which diamonds spilled like droplets of ice, hundreds of scintillating points of light. Her wicked little smile looked like it belonged to a woman keeping a delightful secret—and knowing Jehanne, she probably was.
“It’s very beautiful,” I murmured.
Daniel turned away. “I know.”
His study was as I remembered it, a
With a giggle, she returned the bow, and then sat back down onher little chair, arranging her hands in a contemplative
mudra
. “See! I remember.”
“So you do!” I clapped. “Very well done, your highness.”
The nursemaid Nathalie escorted me to the door, every line of her body expressing disapproval. “Do you imagine his majesty will be pleased to hear you’re teaching the child heathen prayers, and now setting strange foreigners to study with her?” she asked in a low voice.
“I imagine he’ll be pleased to know his royal daughter is learning about other cultures,” I said evenly. “Ancient, venerable cultures. And I would thank you not to speak of my husband as a strange foreigner.”
“It’s unsuitable!” Her face hardened. “He made a jest about reading texts from the Temple of Naamah in her very presence!”
“That was ill advised,” I agreed. “But it was a jest the child is too young to grasp. I’ll speak to him about it.”
It didn’t placate her. With a look of unmitigated disgust, she flung the nursery door open, startling a young page in House Courcel’s blue livery, who was lounging in the hallway.
“Lady Moirin!” He sketched a hasty bow as I exited the nursery. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. His majesty wishes to see you.”
“By all means,” I agreed. Nathalie sniffed and closed the door firmly behind me. Eyeing the closed door, I hoped very much that the King’s summons boded good rather than ill.
King Daniel de la Courcel was in the Hall of Portraits. Approaching, I would have expected to find him contemplating Jehanne’s portrait, or the portrait of his first wife, Seraphine, whom he had also loved deeply. To my surprise, I was wrong. The page coughed discreetly to announce our arrival, and the King shifted slightly to acknowledge it. For several minutes, we waited in silence, not wishing to intrude on his reverie.
At length, he turned. “Thank you, Richard. You may go.” The page bowed and took his leave. “Do you know who she is?” his majesty asked me, indicating the portrait of a beautiful dark-haired womanwith strong brows, candid blue eyes, and a mouth that promised firmness and compassion alike.
“Aye, my lord,” I said. Prince Thierry had taken me to see the Hall of Portraits on my first visit to the Palace. “Anielle de la Courcel. She would have been your grandmother, yes?”
“Yes.” Daniel touched the gilded frame with reverent fingers. “She was the last great ruler Terre d’Ange has known. Did you know they called her reign the Years of Joy?” His mouth twisted. “I wonder what they will call
mine
.”
I said nothing.
“You’re no courtier to feed me smooth lies,” he observed. “Nor a false friend to give me words of false comfort. I appreciate it.”
“Your majesty—”
King Daniel raised one hand to silence me. “I meant my words. Moirin, there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you in private. Come, we’ll speak in my study.”
I inclined my head. “Of course, my lord.”
As I followed him, I couldn’t help but hesitate in front of Jehanne’s portrait, newly hung since last I had visited the Hall of Portraits. The King paused, his expression pained. “That was done the first year of our marriage,” he said quietly. “She sat for it in the costume she wore for the Longest Night.”
I gazed at it without speaking. It was beautiful, of course—it was Jehanne. The artist had done a good job of capturing the sparkle of her eyes, the translucence of her skin. Her pale hair was piled in a coronet, and she wore a high collar of delicate silver filigree from which diamonds spilled like droplets of ice, hundreds of scintillating points of light. Her wicked little smile looked like it belonged to a woman keeping a delightful secret—and knowing Jehanne, she probably was.
“It’s very beautiful,” I murmured.
Daniel turned away. “I know.”
His study was as I remembered it, a
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