A Candle to Light Your Honour

Kitty Ryan, 2003

Chapter Two: Sketching the Pattern
1013, Bidewell Apothecary, Diamond District, Ninver
The day after a wedding

"I'm not sure whether to offer congratulations or condolences, Mistress Bidewell."

Ana shrugged, watching Fedwren Rightwork as he ran careful fingers over packets of herbs on her shelves, taking an eyeglass in and out of his jacket pocket to read the carefully inked lettering. She wondered how a man of his age could be so vain as to think a lack of spectacles would make him look better. "Give me both, and then I'll tell you they're appropriate," she said, weighing out half a pound of crushed arrowroot on a set of brass scales.

"What I mean to say," said Fedwren, "is that I absolutely no idea whether you should be mourning the loss of such a formidable daughter," he smiled in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with humour, "or celebrating the gain of a son."

Another shrug. "Something of both, Master Rightwork, if it's any of your business." Grimly, Ana watched the man fingering another packet. "You're planning to buy, as well as gossip?"

Fedwren smirked, eyes dancing, and took down a packet of dried yarrow heads. "But of course, Mistress Bidewell."

He wants a skin moisturiser?

Smiling, Ana Bidewell took the packet, checking the price that was written in the top right-hand-corner, even though she knew it backwards, in five languages. "That will be two gold astrels and a silver crescent, Master Rightwork. May it be as effective for you as it is for my grandmother."

"G-grandm-moth…gol-old cres…two--!"

"--Something the matter, Fedwren?"

Master Fedwren Rightwork looked from Ana, to his bulging-eyed reflection in the brass scales, to the packet of crushed flower heads. "This is ludicrous!"

"Oh no, sir, it's exceptionally generous."

Fedwren was just about to storm out of the apothecary, pride or no, when realisation dawned. "Aha!"

Ana merely raised an eyebrow.

"Mistress Bidewell, I really should offer you condolences over your daughter's recent marriage. Your family has given away someone in the possession of far more than exceptional generosity." Triumphant, the fabric merchant dug around in his pockets for a while, before fishing out a crumpled bit of parchment.

"What's this, then?" Ana looked at the object with mild interest.

Fedwren thrust it at her, ink-side-up. "A discount!"

"Oh." Holding said discount up to the light, Ana Bidewell read:

"This paper certifies that Master Fedwren Rightwork, head of Fedwren Rightwork's Fine Fabrics of the Diamond District, Ninver, in the Royal State of Capchen, is awarded a monetary discount at the Bidewell Apothecary.

Tuhengri Stormlord witness,

Darra Analise Bidewell, daughter of Mistress Analise Bidewell, of the Bidewell Apothecary, in the year 1013."

"And so you see, Ana," Fedwren said cheerfully. "I have a discount to be considered. The fact that Darra is now a Bidewell-Chandler does not make it any less viable."

"Of course, Fedwren. Of course. How silly of me to forget." Putting down the discount, Ana took up the yarrow packet again, considering. "Two percent, Fedwren."

"What?"

"You have a discount, sir, but the amount is up to me."

"You cheating, manipulative--"

"--Master Rightwork! I'll have you thrown out if you continue to make such accusations! I am perfectly within my rights to do so, and to choose the level of discount. I am the Mistress here."

"You can't seriously consider two percent a--"

"--Oh, but I do. Perhaps, just because I am so happy over Darra's wedding, I'll throw in a garlic clove, for luck."

"You…you…I… how can you…may you and your daughter be shamed in front of all, Mistress Bidewell!"

The door slammed.

Ana laughed, lovingly putting the yarrow back on its shelf. "Asaia bless you, my clever, clever girl."

Residence of Valden and Darra Chandler, Illian Way, Ninver, Capchen
One week after a wedding
Valden Chandler sat up in bed, to watch his wife brush her hair.

Local gossip had it that Capchen's princess, Marietta Ninversdoril, brushed her long tresses (were they golden? Silvery-blonde? Or midnight black? No one who cared about such details could ever decide, as so few had ever seen her) for one thousand strokes. It seemed that Darra was trying to match her. She was already dressed, despite the early hour, in practical, dark blue skirts and petticoats, and a white blouse buttoned so far up the neck the only flesh that could be seen belonged to her face and hands. Her hair hung almost to her waist, clean and vibrant and the only unrestricted looking thing about her. Valden winced as she picked up her pins. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" Darra's eyes were a little bemused in the mirror.

"Pin your hair up like that. It's done nothing to you, and looks so beautiful when it's free."

The eyes sharpened, and Darra's mouth curved in a quick, tight smile. "Don't be absurd," she said.

Valden hauled himself out of bed, shrugging into a dressing gown taken from the doorknob. "It's early in the morning, in my home, with my beautiful wife." Smiling broadly, Valden stood behind her, gently taking up her hair in his hands. "I'm allowed to be absurd once on a while."

Darra stiffened, turning her head so she couldn't see her blushing reflection. "Val…."

Valden sighed, letting go of her hair. "You need to relax, my love."

"And you need to get some clothes on! Honestly, your brothers must be up and making a profit in the District, now." Darra looked sidelong at her husband, face still pink, but more from exasperation than anything else. "I don't understand how you can be content as you are, living in a house you rent from your cousin, and being known as 'just the Chandler's youngest son'."

"Do you think I'm 'just the youngest son', Darra?" Valden's voice was very quiet.

Darra stared at him, unnerved. "No! I never have!" Swallowing, she looked away again, gathering her hair back so she could plait it. "I lo…I know you…you could be so much more than what you--"

"--Then I have achieved my only ambition." Valden, face deadly serious, tilted Darra's head to face him, and kissed her.

Residence of Uraelle Chandler, Highheld Hill, Ninver, Capchen
The door was heavy, ancient mahogany, undressed except for polish, and it always creaked as it opened.

It was creaking now.

"Mistress Darra, welcome. Mistress Chandler is in the upstairs parlour."

Darra, red-in-the face and breathless from her climb up the hill on which the oldest Chandler residence sat, swept past Uraelle's one and only maid, Hillary, without a second glance. People did not hang about talking to household drudges when summoned by the family matriarch.

A family matriarch with a ghastly preference for steep climbs, she thought acidly, as she started on two flights of stairs, petticoats hampering a desire to stride them three at a time, just to get them over with.

Uraelle was waiting at the top of the staircase, tapping a finger on the banister. "Darra, my dear, thank you for coming." The courtesies sounded odd and stilted, coming from her lips. Uraelle knew this as much as anyone else, turning on her heel and walking briskly into the parlour, expecting the much younger woman to follow.

She did. "It was no trouble at all, cousin Uraelle," Darra murmured, looking respectfully at the toes of her shoes.

Uraelle closed the door. "Look at me, girl! You're family now. There's no need for you to carry yourself like a servant. I won't have it said that I treat my cousins' wives without respect."

Darra looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Why would anyone ever say that, cousin Uraelle?"

A short laugh. "Darra Chandler, you seem to be in a different league from my son, or from Emmine, or Gretchen, Healtouch bless the child. And I don't need to know you well to see that you have different priorities."

"Priorities, cousin?"

Uraelle nodded. "You have ambition, my girl. You didn't marry Valden for love alone. We both know that. "

"Please, don't remain standing on my account," said Darra, sweetly. "You look tired."

The old woman smiled thinly, and remained on her feet. "And you look harmless."

"Perhaps, cousin, we both make an effort to appear as what we are not. Or we are simply reading far too much into one another.

Uraelle yawned discreetly behind her hand, eyes unreadable. "I am a little tired after all, it seems. Forgive an old woman with older bones for sitting."

"Of course, cousin Uraelle, there is nothing to forgive." Darra sat down on the un-upholstered teak chair behind her, careful of her skirts. "Except," she caught the woman's eyes for a moment, before turning her gaze meekly to her lap, "perhaps, a harmless girl who is not everything the head of the family could want in a wife for a beloved son."

"Oh, I think not," Uraelle muttered. "You see this candle?" in an abrupt change of subject, she pointed towards a slim, tapered creation of wax on the mantelpiece.

"The one done in beeswax, cousin Uraelle?"

"Yes, girl, that one. Price it for me."

Darra stood. "May I?"

"Of course."

Nodding, Darra took the candle of the mantelpiece, weighing it in her hands. "Hmm…it's solid, right enough. No sparing on materials here, Smooth feel, would melt quickly, but give off a lovely perfume, so you might be able to sell it as an aromatic. Tie a red ribbon around the base, and you might get another three coppers labelling it for luck, or add two drops of poppy to sell it as herbal. Fractionally more expensive for us, but we'd make a profit quickly enough, with all those fools who want magical solutions for their sleeping problems--and the shape would make it a way to win over folk who like pretty things. Say…one silver astrel, three copper creses'? What was the make-price? And the maker?"

"It was seven copper crescents, Darra, with some half-hour of labour. The maker was your husband."

"Never!"

Uraelle smiled. "There are many things you don't know about your new family, girl, but, if you can sell that candle for that much, then I'll admit you know about pricing. Very neat indeed."

Darra blushed, and mentally kicked herself for it. Uraelle Chandler put her on edge. It wasn't a feeling she was used to. And colouring from the smallest praise won't help you, you stupid woman!

"I suppose you know that Gretchen is expecting?"

Darra jumped. "Ye-es… I had been told."

"Of course. You and my Gretchen were always close, I remember. Always doing so many things together. Well, there's nothing to stop you now."

"Pardon?"

"My cousin is very much in love with you, my dear girl." Uraelle spoke with unusual warmth in her voice, making Darra excruciatingly uncomfortable. She struggled to keep her face level. "You should be expecting soon, yourself, if all goes as the gods intend marriages to go."

Uraelle, you manipulative, shrivelled up old biddy; this is none of your business…

Darra had to hide her eyes, for fear of her cousin seeing the anger in them. "Yanna Healtouch willing, cousin."

"Yes, Darra. Well, if you have a girl, I have a request for a name."

Darra looked up again, then, smile just on the dangerous side of mocking. "A request that I am sure you would like to see in writing, with three people as witnesses, when the time comes."

Uraelle took the candle from her, holding it protectively in her lap. "I see we understand eachother."

"Perfectly."

"Her name will be Trisana Uraelle."