Blue Silk Threads
Disclaimer: All characters and locations herein are the property of Tamora Pierce. Plot and actual written words owned by me. Written for Challenge 13 of the Seanfhocal Circle.
It really is quite a difficult choice, thought Duke Roger of Conté, glancing again at the crowd of several dozen young girls down in the courtyard. Noble-girls, all, most of them a year or less short of their grand introduction at court. Below they were dancing with each other under the watchful eye of a nun-instructor, unaware of the man who watched them from the shadowed balcony.
He'd been at the City of the Gods for a month, now, ostensibly making use of the extensive library in the Mithran Cloisters. Not that their books on empathetic magic were anything but extremely useful to him in putting together the next stage of his plan. But… he had another notion in mind. That's why he came to the convent, to look at the girls. The proverbs the Mithrans taught stated very firmly what the deadliest disease of all was. This was just the sort of weapon he needed to complete his armory.
Which came back to the choice he'd been dwelling on. He knew more than a little about weapons; to craft the keenest blade one had to have the finest materials. In the southeastern corner a girl with golden braids danced gracefully and pristinely. Her family was wealthy, influential, and highly loyal to the crown -- high above suspicion. She was fresh and beautiful, even to Roger's exacting taste. Across the floor from her another girl danced. Her family, too, was above reproach, and her looks unquestionable.
There was only the thinnest disadvantage she could claim and that lay in her reddish brown curls, set against the other's mirror-smooth flaxen locks. Yet Roger knew it wasn't for his own amusement he was shopping. His own preferences were less of a question in this matter. Though he did always appreciate golden hair in a woman…
"Squire?" he said, very softly.
"Milord." Alex was as obliging as ever.
"Which would you pick?"
Alex smiled. "Let them do the picking, milord," he suggested.
"Hmm," said Roger. "How would I go about that?"
"Quite simply, milord," explained Alex. "Write invitations to both ladies, sent in my hand, for the exact same place and time. The one who arrives first is the one most willing to take the place you offer."
"Hmmm, and willingness is such a very important trait, in this matter," murmured Roger.
"Shall I carry your messages, milord?" asked Alex.
Roger smiled. "I'll write them out this moment, dear squire."
When the convent girls returned from their supper, most of them found nothing unusual on their lady's tables. But two pairs of hands peeled two identical red wax seals off of two very cordial invitations, written in one smooth, confident script. Two pairs of eyes read their missives curiously, and dwelled on the signature. Two heads of hair, one dark, one fair, were very carefully arranged. Two fine gowns were donned lovingly and excitedly.
One gown had a very small flaw about it, though. As the young lady who wore it was spinning around her small room, imagining herself at court, dancing with the king's nephew, the pale blue skirt caught on the corner of her lady's table. Only the dark red gown, then, was ever covered in a dark cloak to rush to the convent's garden and wait in the shadow of the old walnut tree for a meeting by moonlight. The wait was short; the object of her excitement had been watching, and came to join her moments after he'd seen her arrive.
And as Delia of Eldorne left the convent on Roger of Conté's arm, Cythera of Elden sat on her bed in her nightgown, stroking the threads of silk that had been pulled out of her favorite gown's skirt and mourning her bad luck. Years later she wore a different blue silk gown to an execution, leaning on her husband's arm, sitting on her dark secret.