Delia felt her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “I’ll go get that lunch at the kitchen,” she said meekly, and followed her sister back to the manor.
But Isla took her by the elbow and steered her into an empty little room, almost an ornamental nook, just off the corridor on the way to the kitchen, and closed the door. “We don’t have much time, so listen and don’t ask questions,” she said. “This room is warded completely, but it’s small enough that it’s not likely anyone spying on us has noticed. Always assume you are being scryed. If you need to tell me something, do it here, or in the cellars. We don’t ward our apartment, because we assume that’s the first place a mage would try to eavesdrop. There are a couple more safe places, and I’ll show them to you later. Now, I want you to tell Lesley and Endicrag, and covertly pass them these notes.” She gave a couple pieces of folded parchment to Delia, who tucked them into a pocket. “It doesn’t matter which you give to whom; they are identical. They’ll probably take you somewhere safe to read them, then tell you what they want me to know. You may be bringing back someone from Lord Endicrag’s manor.”
She opened the door again and gave Delia a push to send her out of it. They hadn’t been in there but a few moments. Was this how Isla and Kordas lived all the time?
Probably. And I never noticed it. I guess I just assumed when they were a little late, they’d been loitering over something.
They went on to the kitchen, where Delia gulped down a hasty lunch, and Isla conferred with the Head Cook. Isla left before Delia had finished, and Delia hurried back to the stable.
One of the stablehands had Sundrop saddled and ready for her, and passed her a map. She vaguely knew where Squire Lesley’s home was, but the map confirmed that it wouldn’t be hard to find.
She wanted to gallop Sundrop there, but was afraid that would look as if she had been sent on an errand more urgent than its outward appearance. But then she thought again, and decided to put Sundrop into a canter for at least a little bit. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and warm, and what young lady with any spirit at all, given a Valdemar Gold to ride, wouldn’t urge her mount into a run?
So she did; Sundrop was perfectly willing to oblige, and she allowed herself a moment of pure pleasure in the speed and the wind in her hair. Her pony had never been able to run like this!
Soon enough, she found herself on the little lane that the map told her led to Squire Lesley’s country manor, and when she saw it, she felt a pang of nostalgia and even some grief, because it was a miniature version of her old home. Not as many stories, and not as broad, but it was of the same weathered stone that fit into the landscape, and just as surrounded by beautiful trees and flowering bushes and a low stone wall with a gatehouse. Even the scent of the air was familiar, old-fashioned roses and sweetbush, cut grass and a hint of cypress.
Old-fashioned. When we’ve left Valdemar, will that term even make sense any more? We might never see these flowers and birds again, and have only memories of them. We don’t even know if we’ll be safe there. Even enjoying a day might fade into a memory. We might live in fear of disease, or monsters, or—or just loneliness. The Empire may be awful for us, but even so it gives a sense of being part of something. We could end up somewhere that will offer even less mercy. Nothing to fall back upon, no resources or Healing. What will that do to us? Even now, I’m in safe enough surroundings, with beauty all around, and the thought scares me. How much harder will bravery be when we’re actually there? Surrounded by that much unknown?
This was not the first time she’d had similar thoughts. How would this strike those for whom it would be sudden news?
In a way, the Empire has done us a favor in that regard. It isn’t outright slavery—here in Valdemar, at least, thank gods big and little—but the way the Empire has taught them all, every soul is obedient to those above them in rank, and “belongs” to them, in the sense that a horse is part of a herd, a leader guides the herd, and someone commands the leader. A farmer is part of the farm, not a person who works a farm. Bless them, the commoners will have less conflict about leaving, if their Lords tell them to. And some—well, some will have intense trouble with the fact they’ll be given a choice. But Kordas has been adamant that everyone will have that choice, to go or to stay, even if it makes some Valdemarans just shudder in anxiety. Some of them, I know, won’t want that choice.
Delia rode up to the front door, and before she had gotten there, a servant stepped out of the gatehouse and waved her hat.
“Lady Isla Valdemar’s sister Fidelia, sent by Lady Isla, to see Squire Lesley,” she said, before the servant could ask her name or her business.
“Is it urgent, my lady?” the servant asked. Mindful of the fact that she might be being scryed, she shook her head.
“Not urgent, but important,” she answered.
“Very good, my lady. The Squire is at luncheon, but I am sure he will want to see you. If you will wait here a moment, I will inform him.” At her nod, the servant stepped into the manor and closed the door behind her.
She returned long before Delia expected, with a young servant lad. “If you will allow me to take your horse, the Squire wishes you to come to him,” he said.
She dismounted, handed off the reins, and followed the boy inside.
Another way our dear Valdemar is unlike the Empire proper. Out here, nobody is as strict about what a man’s or woman’s duties are. Parts of the Empire hold that entire categories of behavior are illegal for those of a particular gender: who can speak first, who can be allowed to learn, who can be loved by whom. Even who is allowed to think of loving whom, no matter what a soul’s heart, mind, or body wants; if those in power can control love, they can control anything. So they do.
Instead of taking her to the Great Hall as she had expected, the boy led her through several linked rooms to what looked like the Squire’s study or office. The Squire was absently eating bread and cheese while attending to some sort of paperwork, but looked up at their footfalls. He stood, putting his half-eaten luncheon aside on a book.
“Lady Fidelia!” he said. “A pleasure! How can I serve your sister?”
The Squire was every inch the country gentleman, slightly overweight, balding, and dressed in clothing at least one generation out of date, which might even have been handed down to him from his own father: moleskin trews tucked into well-worn boots, a short brocade waistcoat buttoned over a slight belly, a shorter version of a coat than was currently popular that matched the trews. He looked at the boy and nodded, and the lad vanished.
“Well,” she said, “I have some unexpected news. Kordas has been called to the Capital along with his tribute-horses, and we don’t know when to expect him back. Lady Isla will be in charge of the Duchy, and I’m to serve as her messenger.”
“Well, this is unexpected. Please, sit down,” he replied, brows wrinkling as he gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk. She took it, and he sat back down again. “I suppose being recalled was inevitable. He hasn’t been back since his father died, gods keep him, and the Emperor does like to lay eyes on his nobles from time to time. When did this happen?”