might be appropriate to let the other players in the game know
just exactly who I really was. I loitered in the corridor considering
options.
The easiest thing, of course, would have been a display of my
‘talent’. I toyed with the notion of levitation. I was almost positive
that even the braggart Taygon would get my point if I were to come
floating into the hall about ten feet off the floor and trailing clouds
of glory, but I dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was just
too juvenile. I wanted them to realize that I was above them, but
really
Then I remembered something. Back in the Vale I’d frequently
joined in the chorus of my birds, and I’d picked up certain tricks.
I entered the hall with a feigned show of pensiveness and drifted
on to the far end to speak briefly with the musicians. The
middleaged lutanist who led the little group was delighted with the notion.
I guess he was tired of being ignored by this flock of peacocks.
He stepped to the front of the little platform where the musicians
performed their unnoticed art. ‘My lords and ladies,’ he announced,
‘the Lady Polgara has graciously agreed to favor us with a song.’
The applause was gratifying, but hardly well-educated. They’d
never heard me sing before. As vapid as my suitors were, though,
they’d have applauded me even if my voice came out like the
raucous squawking of a crow.
it didn’t, though.
My lutanist friend took up a melody that seemed to be of Arendish
origin. It was set in a minor key, at any rate, and that seemed to fit
in with the Arendish proclivity to view their lives in terms of classic
tragedy. I didn’t know the words to the song, so I improvised on
the spot.
I enjoy singing – as Durnik may have noticed – and I began in a
clear, girlish soprano. When we reached the second verse, however,
I added harmony in a contralto voice. Singing in two voices at the
same time is rather pleasant, but my audience wasn’t really ready
for it. There were assorted gasps and a lot of wide-eyed looks, and,
more importantly, an absolute silence.
In the third verse I added a soaring coloratura that reached high
above the soprano and modified the contralto harmony to
accommodate that third voice.
Then, in the fourth verse, just to nail my point home, I divided
my three voices and sang in counterpoint, not only musically but
also linguistically. It was rather like a round, when each singer
repeats her predecessor’s first phrase a measure or so later to provide
a complex harmony. I sang in three different voices, and each of
those voices sang different words.
There were some very wild-eyed looks out there when I concluded
my song. I gravely curtsied to my admirers, and then I slowly
walked toward the door. For some reason my suitors didn’t crowd
around me this time. Isn’t that odd? They opened a path for me
instead, and some of their expressions verged on an almost religious
exaltation.
Kamion, my urbane blond suitor, stood near the door. His
expression was one of yearning regret as I passed out of his life
forever. With exquisite grace he bowed to me as I went out from
that place, never to return.
My sister’s wedding was fast approaching, and, though we didn’t
talk about it, we both wanted to spend as much time with each
other as possible. Since Beldaran was to be queen, a fair number of
young Rivan ladies had attached themselves to her. After her
wedding and subsequent coronation, they would become her ladies in
waiting. I’ve noted that a king can be a remote, even isolated person,
since his power is all the company he really needs. Queens, though,
like other women, need company. I also noted that I made my sister’s
companions just a bit nervous. I suppose that’s not too surprising.
Beldaran’s disposition was sunny, and mine wasn’t, for one thing.
Beldaran was about to be married to a man she loved to the point
of distraction, and about all that lay in my future was the loss of a
sister who’d always been the absolute center of my life. Moreover,
Beldaran’s companions had heard of my farewell performance for
the adolescents, and sorcerers – sorceresses in my case – always
seem to make people nervous.
Our major preoccupation at that time was Beldaran’s wedding
gown, and that brought Arell into our lives.
I’m certain that common Rivan name’s familiar to Ce’Nedra.
Arell was a dressmaker. most of the ladies who follow that
profession are thin, wispy girls of a retiring nature. Arell wasn’t like
that at all. In some ways she was like a drill sergeant, issuing
commands in a crisp, businesslike tone of voice that brooked no
nonsense. She was, as they say, generously proportioned. Though she
was only in her mid-thirties, she had what is called a matronly
bosom. She was also a somewhat earthy lady. Since her alternate
profession involved midwifery, there was very little in the functions
of the human body that surprised her. In many ways she was much
the same kind of person Queen Layla of Sendaria came to be.
There was a great deal of blushing going on as she spoke of the
physical side of marriage while her flickering needle dipped in and
out of the gleaming white fabric that was to become my sisters
wedding gown. ‘Men worry too much about that kind of thing,’ she
said on one occasion. biting off the thread on the hem of Beldaran’s
gown. ‘No matter how big and important they seem in the outside
world, they all turn into little boys in the bedroom. Be gentle with
them, and don’t ever laugh. You can laugh later, when you’re alone.’
My sister and I didn’t really need Arell’s instruction. Mother had
carefully explained the entire procedure to us. But how was Arell
to know that?
‘Does it hurt?’ one of Beldaran’s blonde companions asked
apprehensively. That question always seems to come up in these
discussions among young women.
Arell shrugged. ‘Not too much, if you relax. Just don’t tense up,
and everything will be all right.’
I don’t really need to go into much greater detail
do I?
on that subject,
Although our attention to the business of dressmaking kept our
fingers busy, and Arell’s clinical descriptions of intimacy occupied
our minds, our little frenzy of dressmaking was actually a kind of
farewell for my sister and
me. We spoke to each other almost
exclusively in ‘twin’, and we were seldom very far from each other.
The apartment we shared was a bright, sun-filled set of rooms that
overlooked a garden. The windows of our apartment were not on
the seaward side of the Citadel, so they were not the defensively
narrow embrasures that pierced the thick wall on the far side.
Beldaran and I were probably not going to spend our time shooting
arrows at the roses in the garden below, so our windows were broad
and quite tall. When the prevailing clouds permitted, the sun shone
very brightly into the rooms cluttered with scraps of fabric, bolts of
cloth and those necessary wooden stands upon which our various
gowns were to be hung. Without those stands, each of us would
have been obliged to stand for days on end during the tedious
business of fitting.
The walls of the Citadel are uniformly grey, both inside and out,
and grey’s a depressing color. Evidently some considerate Rivan
lady had noticed that fact, so those apartments customarily used by
ladies were softened by stout fabric hangings in various hues. The
hangings in our apartment were alternately deep blue and rich gold,
and the rough stone floor was softened here and there with golden
lambskin rugs, a real blessing for those women who tend to go
about barefooted when they’re not in public. Ladies’ shoes may look
very nice, but they’re not made for comfort. There was a balcony
outside the main room in our apartment, and it had a stone bench
built out from the balustrade at its outer edge. When the weather
was fine, Beldaran and I spent most of our time out there, sitting
very close.
We didn’t speak often, since words aren’t really necessary
between twins. We did, however, remain in almost constant physical
contact with each other. That’s one of the characteristics of twinhood.
If you have occasion to observe a set of twins, you’ll probably notice
that they touch each other far more often than is the case with
untwinned brothers and sisters.
There was a deep sadness in our communion. Beldaran’s marriage
would inevitably draw us apart, and we both knew it. We’d always
been one. Now we’d be two, and I think we both hated the concept
of twoness.
When Beldaran’s gown was finished to Arell’s satisfaction, our
mentor turned her attention to the rest of us. Since I was the sister