you’d better adopt me, Mandorin.’
He blinked.
‘Thou art a Mimbrate Arend, my Lord,’ I reminded him. ‘Though
it is entirely possible that thou couldst singlehandedly assail a
fortress, an outright lie is quite beyond thy capabilities. Let us therefore
seek out a priest of Chaldan to perform the necessary ceremonies.
I will become thy niece, Countess Polina, the flower of an obscure
branch of thy family. Thus may I, all unnoticed, seek out the truth
in this matter.’
His expression grew slightly pained. ‘That is a flimsy basis for
deliberate falsehood, my Lady,’ he objected.
‘Common purpose doth unite us, my Lord, and thine intimate
acquaintanceship with mine aged father doth make us e’en as
brother and sister. Let us formalize our happy kinship, then, so that
we may in joyous union proceed toward the accomplishment of our
goal.’
‘Have thy studies perchance taken thee into the murky realms of
law and jurisprudence, Lady Polgara?’ he asked me with a faint
smile, ‘for thy speech doth have a legalistic flavor to it.’
‘Why, uncle Mandorin,’ I said, ‘what a thing to suggest.’
The ceremony was a charade, of course, but it satisfied Mandorin’s
need for a semblance, at least, of veracity at such time as he’d be
obliged to announce our kinship. We went down to the ornate chapel
in the baron’s castle as soon as we had changed clothes. Mandorin
wore black velvet, and, on an impish sort of whim, I conjured myself
up a white satin gown. On the surface, at least, this ‘adoption’ very
closely resembled a wedding.
I’ve never understood the Arendish religion, and believe me, I’ve
spent a lot of time in Arendia. Chaldan, Bull-God of the Arends,
seems to have a fixation on some obscure concept of honor that
requires his adherents to slaughter each other on the slightest
pretext. The only love an Arend seems really capable of displaying is
directed toward his own sense of self-esteem, which he cuddles to
his bosom like a beloved puppy. The priest of Chaldan who
formalized my kinship with Baron Mandorin was a stern-faced man
in an ornate red robe that managed to convey a sense of being
somehow armored, but maybe that was only my imagination. He
preached a war-like little sermon, urging Mandorin to carve up
anybody offering me the slightest impertinence. Then he ordered
me to live out my life in total, unreasoning obedience to my guardian
and protector.
The fellow obviously didn’t know me.
And when the ceremony was over, I was a full-fledged member
of the House of Mandor.
You didn’t know that we were related, did you, Mandorallen?
Given the response of the Dagashi I’d encountered in Wacune and
Asturia, I knew that I was going to have to do something’ about
the white lock in my hair if I wanted to maintain any kind of
anonymity in Vo Mimbre. I knew that dye, the simplest solution,
wouldn’t work. I’d tried that in the past and found that dye simply
wouldn’t adhere to the lock. After a bit of thought, I simply designed
a coiffure that involved white satin ribbons artfully included in an
elaborately braided arrangement that swept back from my face to
stream freely down my back. The more I looked at the results in
my mirror, the more I liked it. I’ve used it on several occasions since
then, and it’s never failed to attract attention – and compliments.
Isn’t it odd how an act born out of necessity often produces
unexpected benefits? The style was so inherently attractive that I won’t
demean it by calling it a disguise. Then, once that identifying
lock had been concealed, Baron Mandorin and I, ostentatiously
accompanied by twenty or so armored knights, went to Vo
Mimbre.
A great deal of nonsense has been written about Vo Mimbre. but
say what you will, it is impressive. The terrain upon which that
fortress city stands is not spectacularly defensible. It’s no Rak Cthol
or Riva by any stretch of the imagination, but then, neither is Mal
Zeth in Mallorea. The builders of Vo Mimbre and Mal Zeth had
obviously reached a similar conclusion that, put in its simplest terms,
goes something like this: ‘If you don’t have a mountain handy, build
one.’
Mandorin and I – and our clanking escort – entered Vo Mimbre
and rode directly to the ducal palace. We were immediately
admitted and escorted directly to Duke Corrolin’s throne-room. I cannot
for the life of me remember exactly why, but I once again wore that
white satin gown, and I entered that great hall that was decorated
with old banners and antique weapons with a faintly bridal aura
hovering about me. It was probably a bad idea, since I wanted to
be as unobtrusive as possible, but I’m constitutionally incapable of
blending in with the wallpaper or furniture.
Baron Mandorin introduced me, and, since he was Mimbrate to
the core, rather incidentally noted that he would do vast violence
to any man offering me the slightest impertinence. After I’d curtsied
to Duke Corrolin, delivered myself of an appropriately girlish and
empty-headed greeting, I was gathered up by the ladies of the court
and whisked away while the menfolk got down to business. I did
have time to note the presence of a dozen or so men wearing
Tolnedran mantles in the crowd before I left, however, and when I sent
out a probing thought from the middle of that gaily-dressed throng
of young Mimbrate noblewomen who were rushing me away, I
caught the now familiar dull black tinge that identified Murgos
or Dagashi – and I also sensed some red auras. Evidently, Kadon
had raided Ctuchik’s treasury for enough gold to buy up several real
Tolnedrans. What troubled me the most, however, was a momentary
flicker of glossy black. There was Grolim somewhere in the crowd
and that in itself was an indication that what had happened in Vo
Wacune and Vo Astur had been peripheral. The core of Ctuchik’s
plot was here in Vo Mimbre.
It pains me to say it about my own gender, but young women,
particularly young noblewomen, are a silly lot, and their
conversation is top-full of empty-headed frivolity – mostly having to do
with decorating themselves in such ways as to attract attention. I
take a certain amount of comfort in the fact that young men aren’t
much better. From a clinical point of view, the condition has a
chemical basis, but I don’t know that discussing it at length right
here would serve any useful purpose.
The white satin ribbons braided in my hair drew many
compliments – and not a few imitations later – and the style made me
appear younger, so the gaggle of giggling girls assumed that I shared
their views on life, and they’d graciously ‘rescued’ me from tiresome
discussions of such boring topics as the onset of general war and
the mass extermination of virtually everyone on the western side of
the Eastern Escarpment. I was thus treated to a fascinating afternoon
of intense speculation about the impact of hen-dines and hair-styles
on the world situation.
Although Baron Mandorin – dare I say, uncle Mandy? – had been
alerted to what was really happening and could report the details
Of discussions from which my gender and apparent age excluded
me, there would be things happening of which he would not be
aware. I needed to be present at those discussions, and, now that
I’d been brought up to date on current fashions, I felt that it was
time to move on. I ‘just happened’ to come down with a very bad
case of sick headache the next morning and shooed my playmates
out of my rooms. Then I went to the window and ‘went sparrow,,
to use my father’s rather succinct characterization of the process.
It was still summer, so the windows of Corrolin’s palace were all
open, and that gave me all the opportunity I needed to eavesdrop
on the discussions of the Privy Council. I settled on the window-sill,
chirped a couple of times to let everyone know that I was only a
bird, and then cocked my head to listen.
Duke Corrolin was speaking to a squinty-eyed, swarthy fellow in
a pale blue Tolnedran mantle. ‘I must advise thee, worthy Kador,
that word hath but recently arrived from the northern duchies which
doth advise us that Duke Oldoran hath fallen gravely ill by reason
of some obscure malady. The governance of Asturia hath been
placed in the hands of an aged earl yclept Mangaran.’
‘Yes,’ Kador replied, ‘my own sources have confirmed this as well,
your Grace. The initiative in the north, however, lies in the hands
of Duke Kathandrion, and I’ve heard nothing to indicate that he’s
changed his mind about invading Asturia. It doesn’t really matter
who holds power in Vo Astur, since our plan hinges almost entirely
on what’s taking place in Vo Wacune.’
The thought I sent out was so light as to be virtually unnoticed,