Both gowns were of silk, the undergown lighter in color and weight than the overgown. They were supposed to create a flowing line, as if she was a wave upon the sea—curving over her body gently and voluptuously, hinting at what lay beneath without actually revealing anything.
Instead, they hung upon her slight frame, falling straight from her shoulders, hinting at nothing beneath because there was, frankly, nothing there to hint at. Both gowns boasted long trains that were supposed to sweep gracefully behind her, trains that would be pure hell to manage in a crowded room. She kicked at the trains a little, sourly. All very well if you are someone like my mother, with prestige and presence—or if you’re a real beauty, like Katarina an Vines. People notice not only you, but whether or not you’re dragging six ells of fabric behind you, and they take care not to step on it. I’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t half-disrobe me by treading on my train while I’m walking.
The sea-green silk of the undergown was plain, decorated only at the hems and cuffs with borders of plain gold, but the silk of the peacock-green overdress was patterned with iridescent emerald threads woven in a motif of moonbirds, the symbol of the House of Treves. If anything, this was worse on her slight body than plain silk would have been, since the pattern had been woven large, and there wasn’t a whole moonbird visible in the dress until you got to the train. It was supposed to show that she was the pride of her House; instead, it looked rather as if someone had made her dress out of leftover drapery fabric.
Or else people are going to wonder if we’ve taken to displaying our symbol decapitated, detailed, or dewinged.
The darkness of the color made her pale skin appear even whiter than usual. She did look like a corpse. Thanks to her stiff expression, the cosmetics only made her look like a corpse that had been painted for the funeral.
Charming. Absolutely charming. But as long as I don “t try to smile, at least I won’t look like a clown.
Her hair—no, she didn’t want to think about her hair. It was a disaster, an artificial construction cemented over her head, a monument to vanity, an architect’s worst nightmare. But from her point of view, it was worse to wear than it was to look at; the emerald and gold ornaments were so weighty that she feared she would have a headache long before the fete was over. An enormous emerald necklace lay heavily on her white throat, and looked far too much like a slave-collar for her own comfort; huge bracelets encircled her wrists under the oversleeves, rings weighed down her hands, and a belt that clasped tightly at her waist with a long end that hung down to the ground in front made her feel chained to one place.
I hope no one asks me to dance, I can’t move in all of this.
Each of the emeralds was the size of her thumbnail at least, and the gold that anchored them was often in palm-sized plates. The jewels might have been suited to a particularly vain warrior or a very vivid (and strong!) concubine; they certainly were ill suited to her.
She sighed and turned away from the mirror. It didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t matter. She was nothing more than a display. The very best thing she could do tonight would be to stay seated somewhere where Lord Ardeyn (or any other would-be suitor) could admire her jewels, her gown, and the power they implied—power that any children she bore would be presumed to inherit. After all, Lorryn had inherited that power, hadn’t he?
The maids waited for her to say something, either in praise or blame. She waved a heavy hand at them. “My father will probably be very pleased with you,” she told them, unable to offer either on her own behalf. “Myre, please stay; the rest of you may go.”
The maids curtsied, with relief evident on every face, and swiftly left the room, leaving only Rena’s favorite slave, Myre, behind. The girl was not one of Lord Tylar’s former concubines, one of the few who wasn’t, and that alone would have endeared her to Rena. Myre had other virtues, however.
There was nothing particularly distinguishing about Myre; she was neither plain nor pretty, tall nor dwarfish, her hair and eyes were an ordinary enough brown. That was the outside, an exterior that Rena now knew was purely protective. That was because Myre was the only one of all her slaves who actually knew some of what was going on outside the walls of the estate, although she was very mysterious and elusive about her sources of information. What was the most important, though, was that she was willing to share that knowledge with her mistress. She had begun by calling that news “tales” and “stories,” but that particular pretense had been dropped a long time ago.
With the rest of the maids gone, Rena dropped her illusion (thin as it was) of satisfaction, then chuckled as Myre made a grimace of distaste.
“I know,” Rena said to the human. “I know. Dreadful, isn’t it?”
“You make me think of a sacrificial virgin from one of the old religions,” Myre replied, shaking her head, a sardonic smile on her lips. “Some poor little slip of a thing, all weighed down with the gifts to the gods so that she sinks properly when they push her into the gods’ well—brr!”
“Not so much important for herself, but as the bearer of the gifts, yes, I was thinking much the same.” Rena sat back down carefully. “Is there any way you can make these things a little more balanced? I feel as if I might fall over at any moment.”
“I’ll see,” Myre responded readily. “You know, I think I might be able to ‘lose’ some of those horrid hair ornaments. I doubt Lord Tylar will bother to count them. I have never envied you, my lady, but tonight I am very glad that I do not stand in your place. The hair-sculpture must be horrible to wear, and the hair ornaments too heavy to think about.” She cocked her head to one side. “Hmm. I believe I can rid you of about half of them and still keep the entire dreadful effect.”
“Oh, please,” Rena begged shamelessly. “Lorryn made them; they’ll go away by themselves in a day or two. And you can tell me news, if you have any.”
“Some.” The slave carefully removed one of the ornaments, dropped it, and kicked it behind the dressing table. “I’ve heard that the wizards have found a new stronghold and are settling in it. That is, they’ve found a place where they can build a stronghold, and they’ve sent word so that escaping halfbloods can find them there. The dragons are actually building the stronghold for them, or so it is said. I suspect it’s true.”
“They are?” Rena didn’t care about the wizards—but that the dragons were still with them, helping them—”How can a dragon build, though? Wouldn’t that be terribly hard to do, with claws and all?”
Myre laughed, and kicked another ornament into a new hiding place. “I thought I’d told you that when I told you about the war! Dragons have magic too, besides the magic of calling lightning; they can shape rock to whatever form they like. It’s as easy for them to mold rock as it is for a slave to mold clay into a pot.”
Rena saw her own pale green eyes widen as she stared into the mirror. “No, you didn’t tell me that—you didn’t tell me they had magic. I mean, flying and calling lightning is wonderful enough, but magic of their own—they’re like one of the great dursans from Evelon!”
Myre shrugged, as if it didn’t matter much to her. “Well, I suppose it’s a magic that’s logical, even necessary, for something that big to have, anyway. Think about it—if you have to live in a cave, wouldn’t it be a good thing to have some way to make it more livable?”
The slave disposed of another pair of hair ornaments, then loosened the necklace somewhat as Rena nodded. “I imagine you’re right,” Rena responded. “It’s just that every new thing you tell me about them is more wonderful than the last! Oh, I would give anything to see one, even at a distance!”
The slave laughed dryly. “The way things are going, you’re likely to get your wish, since they don’t seem disposed to hide themselves. They’re likely to start flying over the estates someday! You really are attracted to them, though, aren’t you?”
Rena just nodded. Lorryn, now—if he were here, she knew what he would be asking the girl about. The Elvenbane; he was as obsessed with the halfblood wizard-girl as Rena was with dragons. Never mind that it was forbidden to even mention the name of the Elvenbane to the slaves, and that if they were overheard, the fact he had done so would get Myre in serious trouble!