"Look to my chattels and my moveables.
Let senses rule. The word is 'Pitch and Pay.'
Trust none;
For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer cakes,"
Henry V; II.iii.49-52
For the first time in the many years of her stay in the Royal Palace, Veralidaine Sarrasri-Salmalìn felt confined. It couldn't be that the rooms allotted to herself and her husband were insufficient for their young family. Some of Numair's colleagues at the University had much larger households and made do with similar apartments. And she had always felt perfectly secure in letting Sarralyn run about in the central court with the children of other scholars, clerks, and similar palace dependents. There was always someone to watch her children on the not infrequent occasion of both her and Numair's absence. On the edge between the palace and the rest of Corus, very near the University itself, they were far from the wings that housed knights and squires, and from the places where the great men and women of the realm usually congregated. It was an altogether safe and pleasant arrangement, where both she and Numair were in close proximity to those who required their services, and yet far enough away that they could bring up their children in relative peace from the intrigues and hard realities of Court.
Lately, however, those hard realities had been creeping closer and more closer. Of course she had explained to Sarralyn exactly what was happening, as far as the little girl could understand it. Why Daddy had had to rush off in the middle of the night (though this was not an uncommon occurrence) and why Mummy was crying; why they all were to wear black armbands. She and her husband had decided, however, to shield their young daughter (little Rikash was barely old enough to be aware of the goings-on, let alone ask questions about it) as far as possible from the details. Veralidaine herself did not know exactly what had happened that terrible night, but she knew that she could not possibly explain it all to a child of five. Sarralyn knew that a "wicked man" had killed King Jonathan, and Veralidaine considered the shock of death to be enough for her daughter without the added complications of necromancy, ghosts, and her father's possible, though unwitting, complicity. It had been hard enough to get her to bed even with the promise that the "bad man" was safely locked up; Veralidaine shuddered to imagine dealing with Sarralyn's fears upon hearing that a mage like her father could summon up, and had summoned up, a malevolent spirit that could very well have destroyed them all.
Before becoming a mother, and even a few years ago, Veralidaine would have been shocked at the very idea of hiding something from one of her children. Hadn't Ma and Grandpa let her see the world in all of its brutality from the earliest age? But now, well, there was plenty of time to grow up, she said to herself. Let a child have her innocence a little longer. But really, she couldn't imagine a time when she might not be there to protect Sarralyn and Rikash. They wouldn't have to fend for themselves. But she felt uneasy, nonetheless. Accidents can happen, she reminded herself now. You can't foresee what will pass, and you're not doing her any favor by keeping her ignorant. She had decided yesterday that she would have to take Sarralyn aside and confess that she had kept part of the truth from her. And yesterday had become evening, evening had become morning, and morning midday. Tonight, she promised herself. Tonight, I'll explain everything.
Because Sarralyn was no stupid child. Why, this morning, when she had come home in tears because Mistress Sievers had refused to let Hilda and Erik play with her, she had clearly not been satisfied with her mother's hedging justification that Mistress Sievers was simply afraid of magic, even with the consequent concession that magic had been involved in the king's death. ('But why, Mummy? Everyone knows that Daddy is a mage.')
Mistress Sievers… It had been all Veralidaine could do not to burst out when Sarralyn revealed that betrayal. Why, she and Tove Sievers had been friends since the Salmalìns had moved to the compound. Veralidaine had depended absolutely -- still did depend, for that matter -- on her excellent advice and expertise in child-rearing when Sarralyn was an infant. And if the small Scanran community had lived on the edge of the blade since before the most recent war? If one still heard, from all social strata, mutters about "ridding the realm of the damned raiders?" (And, more often, cruder, less sophisticated variations on the same: Sir Nealan had coined that one as a joke and a parody of Scanran declamatory style while legitimately engaged in such ridding from the Scanran Marches, but it had stuck around in educated circles in reference to anyone of such descent.) If Nikita Sievers had barely been able to keep his clerical job during the war due to a heavy accent and still feared for it? She had never considered dropping Tove's friendship because of the taint of Scanran association. And Roald had openly said before the court that he did not hold Numair responsible. Had openly proclaimed his (somewhat qualified, she had to admit) confidence in him. Besides that, she and her husband were two of the best-known commoners in the realm. They were familiar with many of the greatest nobles of the kingdom. There could never be any shame or danger from connections with them.
Mistress Rouse, the elderly mother of one of Numair's colleagues in the College of Healing, had explained the Sievers' circumstances again, in great detail, when she had dropped in that afternoon, ostensibly to help. "We all do what we must, Veralidaine," she had said. "But you know, dear, no one blames you. We are all absolutely with you and the children." Veralidaine had never been a "dear." Not when she had been eight months pregnant with Sarralyn, having to adapt her form every other minute to keep pace with her infant's changes. Not when Numair had been obliged to leave to oversee refugee camp construction days after the child's birth, leaving her alone to deal with her shapeshifting daughter. Then, it had always been acknowledged that she had a vital role in the realm's internal and external defenses, that she was perfectly competent and capable in dealing with everything that came up and with the vagaries of motherhood. But now, she had suddenly become the poor young wife, saddled with two little children and a negligent husband to boot. Yes, Numair had practically been living in the University libraries ever since It had happened. Yes, she had barely seen him. But he was not a criminal!
And she was not planning to desert him. Veralidaine's cheeks burned as she remembered Mistress Rouse's parting words. "If you ever should need a place for you and the children, we'll always welcome you; and Polydore has plenty of connections at the Palace if you're in danger that way." The nerve of that woman! If she had seen Numair that night: in shock, rushing off in his nightshirt! And two days later, returning; unshaven, dirty, gray-faced and staggering; bawling like a child because only when his work was done for a time and the kingdom was secure could he think about the death of his friend and his king.
Although, busy as he was, he might try to find some time for his home. They had agreed to split household chores, to allow them both to pursue their work equally. Of course, as the more importantly placed of the two, he bore a little less than an equal half-share. Numair did have more to do: more research, more teaching, more work. But recently, well, ever since King Jonathan's death, he had barely been present at all, and never in condition to help with homely duties. Oh, she had managed before, and she could manage now -- she was managing, by practically giving up on her own work these past days -- but she found it no easier to cope than he when a stable pillar of existence was suddenly torn down. It was hard to spend night and day cooking, cleaning, mending, and caring for children with no help and the burden of national tragedy. So she hadn't, really, and it showed. Ma would be shocked if she could see the state of the room that served her family as kitchen, front room, work room, and parlor -- everything, in fact, short of sleeping quarters.
King Jonathan. She hadn't had time to think very much about him, either. She couldn't claim to have known him well, but she had served him nigh on ten years, had worked with him, had even enjoyed some familiarity with him on occasion. She had lived under his rule, saved his children's lives and his country. She supposed she had known him better than had most. She respected him, and had always felt loyal: her loyalty for his steady guardianship. She couldn't imagine him gone. His death didn't seem real at all. The children in dusty court to which opened her door were real. And her dirty floor; the piles of clothes sorted into those to wash and those to mend; the pottage burning on her hearth: they were real. Damn it all! Was it burning? She had only intended to reheat it... She had never had this much difficulty before, even on those times when Numair was away.
King Jonathan, there was something else about Jonathan… Oh dear, how could she have nearly forgotten? They were to go pay their respects to the king this afternoon. She and Sarralyn and Rikash. Numair was to have gone with them, but she doubted that he would be able to tear himself away from whatever crucially important work he was now doing. She knew she was being a bit unfair to her husband. He was having a hard time of it. At least the pottage wasn't too badly scorched. It would still do for supper when they returned from the Chapel Royal. Where they were going. Now, before something else came up to distract them. Just as soon as Rikash was fed and Sarralyn's hair was combed. And tonight, she would ask Numair to find a little more time for their family.
